


Sailor's Folly

by missmungoe



Series: Shanties for the Weary Voyager [2]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Courting By Way of Book Hoarding, Developing Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Intimacy, Romance, Sex, Shanks POV, Shanks' crew is a bunch of insufferable fanboys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 10:32:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 57,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8574928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmungoe/pseuds/missmungoe
Summary: He's often wondered if it was fate that steered his course, the day the sea nudged his ship into a port so small and so cheerfully inconspicuous, the sight of it couldn't have hoped to prepare him for the changes it would bring in his life—or the girl who'd make them come about, vast, open heart and gentle stubbornness pulling him in, soft as a siren's song and just as compelling. And fate's intention or not, Shanks knows his own is sealed the moment she looks at him, lovely frown in place, and tells him to order his drink or get out of her doorway.Companion fic to Siren's Call, wherein a cheerful scoundrel sweeps a village barmaid off her feet. Or was it the other way around?





	1. a girl in a port

**Author's Note:**

> This fic runs alongside my [Siren's Call](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6428275), because I've always wanted to write Shanks' take on their story. On that note, please bear in mind that the rating is different, because Shanks is Shanks, and a touch more shameless than Makino, bless her.
> 
>  **Edit (as of June 2018)** : So I’ve been shamelessly adding new bits to this fic since I first posted it, but it had gotten too long to be a standalone chapter, and since there were still more things I wish I'd included when I first wrote it, I decided to just go ahead and rewrite/expand it.
> 
> For returning readers, if there are any: the basis of the fic is still the same, i.e. it still goes alongside the events in Siren’s Call, from Shanks’ perspective. I’ve just added a lot more stuff, and split it into four parts.
> 
> I hope you like it!

They came across the island more by accident than anything else.

They’d been making their way across East Blue at a languid pace; a voyage of ease, which had always been his preference. It was the privilege of a pirate, Shanks believed, to find his freedom in this way, the open sea beckoning, along with all the possibilities in the world.

He watched the water now, yielding to the steady movements of his ship, a perfect mirror of the sky overhead, bending in an endless curve from horizon to horizon, not a cloud in sight, and the only thing standing out from the near-perfect vista being a single, tiny island—a lone emerald in a treasure hoard of blue, sitting pretty and unassuming under a brilliant, white sun.

“Dawn Island,” Ben supplied from beside him, cigarette idly worried between thumb and forefinger. A curl of smoke caught the breeze, the smell barely touching the salt-tinged spray. “And that’s Fuschia Port, if my information is correct.”

Shanks squinted into the light. The sun had turned the water to quicksilver along the horizon, but he could make out the shoreline, and the port. “Not a big place," he mused. From what he could tell, it looked to be little more than a fishing village. He spotted the wharf, beyond which sprawled a cheerful smattering of houses.

Ben shrugged, taking another drag of his cigarette. “We could always go around. There’s a bigger port on the other side.”

Shanks considered the alternative put before him, tapping his fingers along the railing to the tune of an old sea shanty. Going around would mean another few hours before they docked, and even if he wasn’t in a particular hurry, the thought spurred a familiar clenching deep in his stomach.

And never having been one for ignoring his gut, “As long as it has a bar, I don’t see why we can’t make our stop there," he said.

Ben didn’t protest, but then Ben wasn't in the habit of questioning his captain's decisions. His sanity, yes, and up to several times in a single day, but never his gut.

And so, “Aye,” he said simply, and promptly left to inform the navigator.

Shanks remained by the railing, eyes shielded from the glare by the brim of his hat as they drew closer to the island. And maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing, catching their breaths in a quiet port. It was too small for a marine base, for one, and his men probably wouldn’t get into too much trouble in such a place, idyllic almost to the point of exaggeration; a pastoral wet dream plucked straight out of the pages of a picture book.

But pervasive idyll aside, their arrival caused...more excitement than Shanks had anticipated.

**_"Pirates! Pirates at the docks!"_ **

The terrified shriek tore across the wharf, followed by a chorus of doors and windows slamming shut. He caught a merchant abandoning his fruit cart, and a nearby fisherman looked ready to take his chances with the sea rather than stay in his dinghy.

They’d barely stepped off the ship, and half the town had already gone into hiding.

“Friendly place,” Shanks chirped, observing the wharf. A gently sloping path curved inland, and some of his crew had already left in search of the local tavern. If there was one.

The prospect that there might not be seemed suddenly daunting.

Ben shrugged, casting his gaze across the first row of houses, seeming otherwise unperturbed by the reactions to their arrival. “You always did like making an entrance.”

Aware of the truth in that statement but still feeling a twinge of regret at the villagers’ visceral response, Shanks’ grin was sheepish. “True, but it would be a lot more gratifying if there were actually people around to witness it.”

Ben just shook his head, falling into step with Lucky and Yasopp as they made their way into the village proper, passing an assortment of porches and townhouses, before coming to a stop in front of the entrance to the local tavern — ostensibly so by the sign mounted above the bat-wing doors.

“’Party’s Bar’,” Shanks read. Then with palpable delight, whispered, “It’s like they knew I was coming.”

“That must be it,” Ben deadpanned, but Shanks ignored him, laughing as he pushed through the swinging doors, the rest of his crew following suit.

The interior wasn’t what he’d expected. Usually, the smaller the port the seedier the local watering hole, but Fuschia seemed to be the cheerful exception.

It wasn’t a particularly big establishment, but it was obviously well cared-for, the walls painted a fresh, spring green that brought out the glossy brown of the sweeping hardwood floors and heavy ceiling beams, and the rosy wood of the furnishings. A gleaming brass kerosene lamp hung above the very centre of the room, unlit and obsolete with the sunlight pouring in through the bank of windows overlooking the sea. And that much light usually brought out small, dirty secrets, smudges on glass and dust motes in the air, but there was nothing of that sort, and it smelled _clean,_ the faint trace of food cooking beckoning his appetite.

And it smelled of home, the crisp ocean breeze stirring the curtains by one of the windows, thrown open to welcome the sea.

Behind the bar stood several rows of sturdy, cherrywood shelves, built to match the counter and holding a vast assortment of glasses and bottles and jars with various preserves, all lined and stacked with careful precision, not a speck of dust in sight. A decorative tray was mounted on the wall, the metal polished to shining, and there was no unnecessary clutter lying about. Instead, there was a large pot teeming with freshly picked flowers, and a heavily-laden bookcase loomed at the far end of the room, neatly organised.

Of course, the most notable thing by far was the girl behind the bar, looking like she was trying to physically melt through the wall at her back.

Shanks realised then what they must look like—the crew filling the doorway and half the common room, all of them men, some armed to the teeth and others, like Lucky, looking like they didn’t need more than their fists—and, "Easy, now!” he said, his voice rising above the din with ease, but he made sure the command sitting in the words was softened enough to take the edge off. “You're scaring the poor girl."

Her gaze snapped to his at that, taking in the sight of him, and he ignored the curl of gratification in his gut at the thorough sweep of her eyes across his form, pausing only a moment on his hat—or what was far more likely, his hair—and her face was an incredibly expressive thing, Shanks found, taking in every minute shift of her delicate features.

Not a single secret to be found in a face like that, and he’d always liked honest people—especially those who couldn’t help it.

His grin came without effort, and he didn’t have to fake his cheer. "Good afternoon, Miss! I take it you're the owner? Shanks is the name, and this rowdy bunch is my crew. Pleased to make your acquaintance!"

The greeting might have been a bit over the top, he realised belatedly, but watching her reaction, couldn't really make himself regret it.

She was gaping now, her face still a delightfully open canvas of rapidly shifting emotions, and he found her first impression of him reflected back — fear and disbelief, topped with a hint of shock for good measure, and just the tiniest sliver of shameless curiosity.

 _Pretty,_ he thought, gaze shifting from those wide eyes, dark like fresh, upturned soil and touched with flecks of gold from the sunlight, and to the rest of her; an appraisal to match her own.

Dainty, doe-like features, a lovely face framed by dark, bottle-green hair, tied back with a kerchief dotted with cheerful red and blue flowers. In his experience, most barmaids wore clothes to match the job, meaning ample amounts of cleavage and aprons stained with ale and worse things, but this one did neither. Instead of a low-cut shirt, what drew his eyes was the delicate line of her collarbones above the modest, lace-trimmed neck of her cream-coloured blouse, and the clean, sky-blue apron cinched tight around a slim waist, seeming to beg questing hands.

Somewhere at his back he caught a chuckle, the sound breaking the spell and dragging him out of his unabashed staring at her waist, and Shanks watched curiously as her features suddenly contorted, her shock bleeding into anger, and he could watch a face like that for hours and never grow tired, he realised, strangely captivated by the sight. She hid absolutely _nothing._

She huffed then, and asked, "Well then can I get you anything, _Captain_ , or are you going to continue blocking my doorway and hindering my business?"

The cadence of her voice fell, clear like a bell-chime and carrying across the space between them with surprising weight, despite her slight stature. And he’d wondered what she would sound like, but he hadn’t been prepared for it — not for her voice to be so lovely, nor her words so condemning.

His laughter tore from his throat quite despite himself.

It caught her off guard, he could tell, her features pulling into a frown now, such an endearingly _earnest_ thing, and Shanks couldn’t help the grin, or the words clinging to the heels of his laughter. "Oh, I _like_ you,” he said. And turning to the others, “It's decided. We're staying!"

A surge of agreement washed across the room, and Shanks took a moment to let the sound settle, watching his crew take their seats around the tavern. Then, turning his eyes back to the barmaid, who looked torn between a great number of different emotions, all of them offered up for his perusal, asked, "Miss?"

It dragged her eyes from his crew to his face, and it took her a moment of seeing through him before her gaze settled, lingering only a little longer on his scars, but that wasn’t surprising. Most people were a bit put off by the sight, at first.

And their arrival had made her uncomfortable, that much was obvious, but there was something about her reaction he couldn’t put his finger on. "Everything alright?"

She seemed to collect herself, righting her small shoulders, and he wondered if she would be proffering a broom soon to chase him out of her bar.

Somehow, the thought wasn’t entirely off-putting.

"Yes, ah—everything is fine,” she said. “Just fine. _Peachy_. Can I get you anything?"

Oh, but the underlying cheek was _delightful_. And the proud set to her shoulders, despite the fact that she was so clearly put off by their presence, made him fight to keep his smile from turning wicked, and his remarks from letting her know just what he would have requested, if it had been entirely up to him.

"Whatever you have will suffice," he said instead. "We're all tired from a long voyage, and I don't think anyone will care exactly what you serve them, as long as it contains alcohol.”

She nodded once, as though to herself, and seemed for a moment to retreat into her own thoughts, murmuring under her breath as she made for the door to what was most likely the storeroom.

Shanks watched her go, shamelessly intrigued. She appeared to be the sole proprietor, going by the distinct lack of anyone else helping her, but then he’d often found that to be the way with barmaids, although they were usually older, and with far less patience for his charm. He’d met his share of tavern wenches in his time, so he knew the sort.

This one, though…barely out of girlhood by the looks of things, and fretting at every twitch of his fingers, as though she was expecting him to reach for his sword any second. And yet, beneath the anxiety sat a stubborn sort of personality she’d let slip a glimpse of, and that he now found himself wondering what it would take to bring fully out into the open.

He decided to try.

"So, what's your name?"

Surprised by the query, she stopped in the doorway to the storeroom, a barrel hoisted up between her slender arms. Shanks watched as she blew a lock of hair out of her face, from where it had escaped her kerchief. "Pardon?”

 _Polite,_ that’s what she was. Whatever she thought of them, she was treating them like customers, if only for fear for her own safety, but he’d witnessed braver souls try and fail to keep their cool around his crew, and without life-threatening incentive.

Curious girl. "Your name,” Shanks repeated, hoping it sounded amicable enough. It had been a while since they’d been met with so much blatant distrust as this tiny village had collectively managed between them. “I told you mine, now it's only common courtesy that you tell me yours."

Her frown was a lovely thing, and he spared half a though to whether or not he should tell her, but—"Makino," the girl said then, depositing the barrel behind the counter. She still looked jittery, as though she hadn’t yet decided if it would be in her best interest to just bolt and leave them to their drinking. Or toss the barrel at his head.

Shanks didn’t know which thought amused him most.

"We're making you uneasy," he told her.

She huffed at that, the sound unexpected enough to lift his brows, and he had to fight to keep his grin polite. “It's not every day pirates come to visit," she retorted, eyes darting towards the front doors. Her frown deepened, and he wondered what she was thinking — wondering if someone was coming to her aid, maybe, or just dismissing the thought altogether. Based on the village’s reaction upon their arrival, Shanks doubted anyone would dare.

He felt suddenly bad for the girl, left to fend for herself. If it had been a different crew than his…

"You can relax, you know,” he said then, hoping his sincerity transferred, before he quipped, “My men would never hurt the one who serves them."

The look on her face told him plainly it had not. "How reassuring," Makino said, but with enough deadpan cheek to prompt another grin, and when she slid a glass across the counter he accepted it, gaze lingering a moment longer on that lovely hand, with its gently arching knuckles. He resisted the sudden urge to run his fingers across them.

The sound of someone walking overhead reached his ears then; the steps quick, light-footed things.

"The kid yours?" Shanks asked, lifting his eyes from her hand to her face.

Makino blinked, and Shanks nodded to the stairs. "The footsteps are too light to be an adult's, so I'm guessing it's a child. And since you're the owner of this establishment, it would only be natural for you to live above it."

He considered her where she stood, eyes wide and giving away her every feeling. She couldn’t be more than nineteen, twenty at most.

"You look a little young to have a grown child, though,” he added, before he could drag the words back, and swallowed the groan that almost followed. _Smooth, Shanks._

"Ma-chan?"

The little voice dragged her eyes away from his, and then she was moving for the stairs, but the kid was quicker, manoeuvring past her with an agility that had Shanks’ brows shooting into his hairline—

—and then there was a boy looking up at him, dark, owlish eyes sitting wide and inquisitive in a round-cheeked face. "Why do you have a sword?"

Shanks grinned. He’d always liked kids. "Why, because every respectable pirate needs a weapon, and mine is a sword.” He gave Gryphon a pat for emphasis, and the boy’s mouth dropped open. He seemed to heave for breath, before the exclamation left him, shrill with earnest incredulity.

_"You're a pirate!?"_

The girl sighed, reaching for him. "Luffy—"

"Sure am! The name's Shanks."

The fact that he was indulging the kid didn’t seem to sit well with her, from the look she shot him. "Come on, Luffy," Makino said. "Go back upstairs, and I'll bring you a plate.”

Luffy didn’t seem to hear her, wholly focused on Shanks. "Are you the bad guys?” he asked, blunt in the way that came so naturally to kids. “Because Gramps says all pirates are bad guys with no morals. Do you have morals? Where did you come from? Are you going to hurt Ma-chan?"

Makino made to grab the back of his shirt, but he moved out of her reach, scrambling up onto the stool like a monkey, a fierce frown now firmly in place, having wiped off his earlier intrigue. "If you are, you better watch out, 'cause I'm gonna protect her!"

"Lucky girl," Shanks laughed, with a wink in Makino's direction. And because she so clearly expected him to take offence at the kid’s inquisitiveness, he let a thoughtful hum sit at the bottom of his throat, before he said, "But to answer your questions, kid—bad guys or good guys, you're going to have to make that decision for yourself. We've just arrived from a long voyage, and I certainly hope I still have my morals, as it would be a damn shame to have lost them. Hard to find once lost, you know? And as for the girl..." He shot her his most charming smile. "I'll have you know I don't make a habit of hurting beautiful women, and I don't plan to start now."

He watched her cheeks flush a brilliant pink, a startlingly attractive sight, and it lured a pleased laugh from his chest.

"So...you're _not_ the bad guys?"

"Luffy," Makino tried again, seeming torn between exasperation and that stubborn fear she refused to give up. "Don't bother the customers."

Shanks waved off her concerns. "Ah, it's of no consequence, my dear. I like the kid." He met her gaze again, his eyes curving with a smile—and what he hoped was a disarming one, at that. She seemed intent on keeping him at arm’s length, and she might not have raised a weapon against him, but the way she held herself made him wonder if she wasn’t half-expecting him to challenge her to a fight.

The thought was curiously delightful, like the girl herself, especially when her brows furrowed like _that._ Still suspicious, but so clearly conflicted about it.

Well, then. He’d never been known to back down from a challenge, especially one offered so blatantly as this.

Shanks grinned, and saw as her eyes tracked the curl of it along his mouth, before darting back to his as he asked, gesturing the room behind him, and the pirates in it,

"Now, about those drinks...?"

 

—

 

“Cute girl,” Shanks said, after Makino had wrangled Luffy back upstairs. Not her son, she’d said. A ward of sorts, then.

Ben cut him a glance. “That look is never good.”

“What?”

Ben lifted his glass to his lips. “That look. It means trouble.”

“I’m not planning on getting us into trouble, Ben. Have you seen this place? There's a flower vase in practically every window. How much trouble could I possibly cause?”

“With the way you’re looking at that girl, I’d say a fair bit.”

Shanks paused, considering his glass, and Ben’s words. And maybe he had been coming on a bit strong, even for him, but, “No,” he said. His voice had dropped, and he might joke and tease, but Ben knew better—knew _Shanks_ better than to assume. “I’ll push my luck with a lot of things, but never that.”

Ben considered him for a long time. Then, “Idiot,” he said. “I wasn’t implying that you’d take advantage.”

“Then what?”

Ben only shook his head. “Nothing.”

“C’mon, Ben.”

“If you can’t see it, I’m not telling you.”

Shanks pouted. “Mean.”

“She’s coming back downstairs.”

His gaze lifted to the staircase. In his periphery, he caught Ben shaking his head, and mutter something too low for Shanks to hear, but he ignored it in favour of Makino, who was surveying her common room like she didn’t know what to do with them all.

He didn’t know what it was about that look or the girl that made his smile curve so fiercely, and when she walked over, studiously ignoring his shameless observation as she set about scrubbing the counter-top like it had personally offended her, there was an inkling at the back of his mind that he’d missed something vital.

Ben might have told him, he would realise one day, years later, but as it was, Shanks was too busy watching Makino to make note of much else.

 

—

 

He watched as the ship pulled away from the wharf, the calm waters parting beneath the prow like butter to a hot knife, and he breathed deep, filling his lungs until they ached, the morning air cool and crisp and tangy with salt, and the little port-side smells and sounds that always marked the start of a new voyage.

There’d been no one to see them off, but then that wasn’t all that strange. They’d be relieved to wake and find them gone, Shanks suspected. Most of them, anyway, although it was a fool’s hope, the one he felt now, thinking about what she might feel when she learned of their sudden departure.

 _You've given me a reason to come back now, you realise,_ he'd told her the night before, having rooted out a few snippets of conversation from her stubborn wariness, and lingering distrust.

She’d offered her doubt without hesitation, endearingly honest. _Hardly, Captain. I assure you there are greater adventures to be found elsewhere._

_You sound like you could use one of those._

Her blush had been lovely in its gentle candour, but her smile had been a private thing, and one that had made him suddenly want to know the thoughts behind it. For once, her expression hadn’t given everything away.

 _Only the ones I find in my books,_ she'd said.

He realised he was grinning like an idiot, and had to shake his head, suddenly glad Ben wasn’t present to give him grief for it. Or Yasopp, who was just as likely to do so, if the opportunity presented itself.

But when he thought about her—those dark, compelling eyes that had seen so little of the world and that had filled with wonder at the tales they'd told her, curious wholly in spite of her better judgement—he allowed his smile to curve in truth. “An adventure, huh?”

The sea didn’t answer, and he watched as Dawn Island faded to a shadow, a rosy sunrise that invoked the blush in her cheeks creeping fast across the sky and the waters ushering them away with the same ease it had welcomed them the day before.

It was funny, the things you came across on the open sea, entirely by accident. Like curious little villages, and barmaids who wore their hearts for the whole world to see.

Well. This barmaid, at least.

 

—

 

Years later, he’ll wonder just how much of it was accident and just how much was predestined, but it’s a dangerous thing and every pirate knows it, gambling your money on the Fates. And he might push his luck with a lot of things, but never, _ever_ with that.

 

—

 

“We’re going back to Fuschia?”

Shanks ignored the _smile_ he could hear stretching along Yasopp’s words, and the implication sitting in the shape of it. He could feel Ben’s eyes on his back, dry amusement radiating off his whole person, and he was tempted to call them both out on their mutinous cheek.

“Eh, I’m not complaining. Decent enough drink to be found,” Yasopp remarked, tone far too casual. “Don’t you think so, Ben?”

“Yes,” Ben agreed, and Shanks resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at them both. “Perfectly _decent_.”

“Nice establishment too,” Yasopp continued, crossing his arms over his chest, and sliding a thoughtful look in Shanks’ direction. "Party's."

“Cleaner than our usual haunts,” Ben supplied, the words spoken around his newly lit cigarette.

“Unlike Boss’ thoughts,” Lucky quipped, passing by, the remark punctuated with a flourish as he took a loud bite of the cut of meat in his grip.

Shanks sighed, “Hey now, that—”

“Ah, yes,” Yasopp mused, cutting him off. “Who could forget the lovely Makino- _chan_?”

“Who, indeed?” Ben asked, ignoring Shanks’ put-upon expression.

Someone slapped him on the back. “She was a pretty girl, though! Can’t blame you for wanting to go back, Boss.” A whistle followed. “If I wasn’t already married—”

His warning look was met with uproarious laughter, and Shanks shook his head, watching their mirth as it overtook the deck, but it was difficult keeping his own smile at bay. “Have you all had your fun?”

“We’re just teasing you, Boss.”

“Yeah, you’re hearing no complaints from us!”

“Setting our course for the East Blue, Captain. You’ll be seeing your sweetheart in no time!”

More laughter followed, their collective delight a cheerful fact, and Shanks could only watch them, a strangely light feeling in his chest.

Turning towards the helm, he found Ben watching him, an unreadable look on his face. Unlike a certain barmaid, his first mate didn’t wear all his thoughts and feelings for Shanks’ perusal.

“What?” Shanks asked.

“Nothing,” Ben said, taking another drag of his cigarette.

Shanks frowned. “There you go with those cryptic responses of yours. You don’t think we should go back?”

Ben just looked at him. “I think,” he said, exhaling deeply, the smoke dissipating on the breeze as he turned his eyes to the sea, and the direction of East Blue, “that I should like to see how this pans out.”

Shanks didn’t know what to make of that, whether it was genuine good humour on his behalf, or if there was something else there; something Ben had picked up on that he hadn’t.

 _Trouble_ , he mused, eyes on the horizon and remembering Ben’s words from that evening at Party’s all those weeks ago.

Except that Shanks couldn’t say for certain that he was the one causing it, this time.

 

—

 

She liked to read.

He didn’t know why the memory kept resurfacing, and with such frequency. It would find him walking past a bookshop in some remote port, and glancing at the few volumes stacked on the desk in his quarters. Sometimes it found him entirely unprompted, between breaths, or just with the thought of her.

He remembered the bookcase in Party’s common room, so painstakingly organised. And he thought of his late mother, and the books she’d loved; rare gifts his old man had brought back from his travels before he’d stopped coming home. But she’d treasured the few she had until she’d passed — they’d been her _treasures_ , and Shanks had never been one to question how other people weighed the worth of that word.

He considered the ratty old paperback in his hands, a well-thumbed favourite from whenever Doc forced bed rest on him. He’d never been a very prolific reader, but he found himself wondering now if there might be something to it.

“You’re not much of a gift,” he mused, turning the book over in his hands. The spine was wrinkled, the edges torn and the cover faded. No, it definitely wasn’t suited for giving away.

Although, remembering her kind eyes, he wondered if that would have mattered to her at all.

 

—

 

“Hey, Boss?”

He turned at the address to find Lucky dropping a crate at his feet, a grin splitting his round face. “Found this with the rest of the loot. Thought you might want to have a look.”

The entirely too-knowing smile that seemed in no hurry to leave his face gave Shanks a good idea of what the crate might be holding, but he pried it open anyway, ignoring the curious gazes drifting his way as he lifted off the protective oil-skin covering that had been stuffed inside, no doubt to keep the contents dry.

He didn’t know how word had gotten out that he was looking, but it didn’t really matter. And he didn’t even try to temper his delight as he pulled out the top volume of the stack of books, turning it over in his hands.

Leather-bound with deckled edges and gold filigree along the spine; it was either a first edition, or a collector’s.

“Thanks, Lucky.”

Lucky gave a grinning salute. “No problem, Boss. I hope she likes it.”

“Captain!” sounded the call from across the deck, as someone held up another volume, this one also bound in leather, and with engravings on the front cover. “I’ve got another one for when you go a-courtin’. Better be prepared if she’s already read that one.”

“I’ve got a much better one!” someone else shouted, laughing. “Do you think Makino-san would pick me instead? I’m much better looking than Boss— _and_ I’ve got better books.”

“Idiot, that’s not even a novel. That’s a ship’s log.”

“Ah—really?”

“Jeez, you bring her that and she might take pity on you, at least.”

“What, like that’s not what she did with the captain?”

“ _Hey_ ,” Shanks interjected, but the word held too much laughter to be truly offended. And it did nothing to dampen the good mood that had gotten comfortable amidst the crew gathered on deck—and that only partly due to their haul, going by their grins.

Turning his gaze back to the book in his hands, he flipped it open, skimming down the first page and finding a quick-tongued heroine, searching for a fabled treasure on some fictitious and far-away ocean.

_An adventure, huh?_

Grinning, he tucked the book into his cloak. And she might not have minded the old paperback, but there was a part of him—one that was young, and entirely too ridiculous—that wanted to see how she’d react to something like this. A stolen piece of the world he called his own; not silver or gold or precious jewels, but a treasure, regardless.

 

—

 

Their return didn’t cause quite the same amount of fuss as their first arrival.

Of course, that’s not to say it went entirely without a hitch.

“Congratulations. You’ve driven her off.”

“I have _not_.”

The look Ben cut him said enough, although that didn’t stop him. “She hasn’t been out in ten minutes. Either she’s hiding in there, or she climbed out the back window.”

“Conjecture,” Shanks said, before adding with a mutter, “ _Cruel_ conjecture.” But his fingers tapped a restless tune against his glass, and there was a part of him that couldn’t help but wonder if Ben was right.

Makino had escaped into the storeroom after one too many laden looks, and once again Shanks found himself wondering if he hadn’t been coming on a bit too strong. He’d had no intention of scaring her off, but for all that her face was an open book, her behaviour towards him all throughout the day had been impossible to interpret into anything that made even a remote bit of sense.

He knew there was _interest_ there. He’d have to be blind not to see it. It sat in every stolen glance, and every pretty blush that coloured her cheeks. And he felt it, in the quickening of her heartbeat, her whole presence softening into something that was warm and welcoming. Their repartee had been effortless, had been _comfortable,_ and she’d welcomed his attentions this time. She'd even taken liberties with him, which had been a delightful discovery on Shanks’ part.

But the moment he’d given her the smallest indication that her interest was reciprocated, she’d reacted like it had come completely out of the blue—as though she hadn’t been aware of it, that near-tangible attraction that had sparked between them.

It made him wonder.

He thought of the book he’d hidden away in the bookcase, a looming presence at his back now, and not for the first time did he question whether or not he should just give it to her outright. He’d get to see the look on her face, at least — would get to watch her reactions play out, shaping her expressive features. Although knowing Makino as he did now, she might just try and give it back, and that would render the whole thing a little pointless.

“This is shaping up to be more entertaining than even Yasopp thought,” Ben remarked then, and Shanks rolled his eyes.

“Having fun at my expense again?”

“Always, Captain.”

Shanks sighed, looking in the direction of the storeroom. The closed door didn’t budge. “You really think I scared her off?”

Ben followed his gaze. “Honestly? Maybe she’s better off running.”

But even as Shanks knew that he was teasing, he couldn’t help the thought that Ben might just have a point.

 

—

 

He didn’t move from his seat as the rest of his crew departed, keenly aware of Ben’s parting look as he made to follow the others. There was a warning there, but for who, Shanks didn’t rightly know. Makino, in all likelihood. Or him with his foolish heart, a predicament even Ben’s quick wit and strategy couldn’t get him out of now.

She hadn’t expected to find him there, that much was clear by the way her entire expression changed upon catching sight of him.

"Captain?” Her voice sounded breathless, and his own reaction was a living thing, but he forced it down as she smoothed her hands over her skirt and asked, “Did you forget something?”

Shanks watched her. "You're uncomfortable."

He was pleasantly surprised to find her polite smile dropping, chucked like an ill-fitting garment in favour of something more earnest. "Am I going to have to say why, or do you know that, too?" she asked.

He smiled. "I can make an educated guess."

Her sigh sounded strangely defeated. "About what happened,” she began. “If Ben hadn't showed up—”

"Then I would have kissed you," he said, and watched her blush scald her cheeks, bright and telling, even as her brows remained furrowed.

"No use beating around the bush, I see,” Makino mumbled.

"Not a chance," he chirped, grinning. "Unless that would make you more comfortable? In which case, I'm well-versed in circumventing bushes."

She made an attempt at schooling her expression—and promptly failed. "I—no. Blunt is fine. Just fine. But now that that's out of the way—”

"You would have kissed me back,” Shanks said, before she could finish.

Her mouth fell open, and her honest surprise made his smile widen. "I— _excuse_ me? I would not!"

"Yes, you would."

Her face was such a delightful tumult of different expressions, it was difficult selecting one to focus on. Then at length, she asked, the words controlled, "Wishful thinking, Captain?"

Oh, and that _nickname_. Did she know exactly what that did to him? But in spite of his delight, " _Shanks,”_ he enunciated. "And you need to become a much better liar, my girl, if you ever want to convince anyone with half a mind that you're telling the truth."

She huffed. "I'm not lying. I wouldn't have kissed you back then, and I wouldn't kiss you now even if you were to—” And catching sight of his reaction to _that_ admission, which Shanks didn’t make a point to curb, or to temper into something even resembling neutrality, “Not—not that that was in any way a challenge, Captain,” Makino said, the words escaping her in a rush. “What are—no, sit back down. It wasn't a challenge!"

He'd moved before she could finish speaking, catching her chin to tilt it, and he heard her sharp inhale where it stuttered, but she didn’t recoil from his touch.

And she was such a little thing, the top of her head barely level with his chest, and as he watched her eyes begin to slip shut it took effort to not just pull her to him and kiss her like he’d imagined, ever since the idea had first slunk its graceful feet into his mind and promptly refused to leave.

Then she went suddenly rigid, her muscles clenching; Shanks felt it where he still gripped her chin, and in her whole body where she was pressed against him, her back to the wall behind her. And he watched as her eyes flew back open, large and dark and seeming to swallow him whole, but they weren’t condemning. No, they were _fearful_.

He’d stepped away before she could draw another breath, his fingers releasing her chin, and he wasn’t touching her now but he could _feel_ her still, like an imprint on his fingertips.

"Looks like my intuition was wrong,” he said. He hoped the smile he willed to his mouth conveyed his apology; the regret he felt, swelling in his chest now. "I apologise for my forwardness, Makino-san. I hope you'll forgive me?"

He watched her mouth working, seeming startled by his sudden formality, but when she spoke her voice was little more than a croak. “Captain—"

His grin came, too quick to be genuine, but he wondered if she could tell the difference. “Never let it be said that I'm not a shameless opportunist, but even so, I won't overstep my boundaries." Tugging the brim of his hat down, he allowed his gaze to drop from hers. "Have a good night, Makino-san."

He turned to leave, and had pulled his cloak around his shoulders when her voice rang out, halting him in his tracks—

"I couldn't take it!"

Shanks didn’t turn around, knowing already the folly it would be to look directly at her face, which he knew would be projecting her every feeling.

Makino continued, the words stumbling off her tongue now, "I couldn't take it if—if things were to become something else, something...more, because I—I couldn't possibly get involved with you if it's just a one-time thing. Maybe you could, but I...can't."

She paused. It felt to Shanks like there was a whole lifetime in the beat that passed, before Makino murmured, "I feel too much already.” But before he could even wrap his head around that declaration, she was pushing forward, “And maybe that's on me, but I don't—I don't want to think about what would happen if—"

She stopped herself, and suddenly, Shanks wondered what she looked like. It took physical effort not to turn around, knowing it would be a mistake, because if he did, she might—

He heard her sigh, and the way it shivered. "I'm sorry that I can't be—different," she said, stuttering a bit over the last word, "and that I can't feel differently, but it's who I am, and even if I tried to change that—"

"Don't."

In spite of his better judgement, he allowed himself to incline his head to look at her, and took care to keep his expression neutral, even as he said, honestly, "Don't ever change who you are. Not for anyone."

He knew his smile looked fake now, but couldn’t be bothered to care. "You're quite unlike anyone I've ever met, Makino-san,” Shanks said, and hoped that if she’d ever thought he possessed even a shred of sincerity, it would be now. “And I would never take you that lightly. If anything, know that."

He heard the way her breath caught, but he’d turned back before he could catch the expression on her face, intent on putting some distance between them before he did something stupid, like run at the mouth. "Take care."

Then he’d pushed past the doors, not looking back, but he could feel her eyes on him all the way to the docks, the weight of them like the night sky pressing down, out at sea with nothing but the endless stretch of water and horizon on all sides.

He wondered what the hell he was even doing, and what he’d thought he’d gain from initiating something like this, knowing full well where his life would be taking him, and that it wasn’t back to a remote corner of East Blue with every turn of the tide. She had every right to keep her distance, to guard her heart, and Shanks only felt more the fool for forgetting that it wasn’t just his own that was at stake.

Walking up the gangway, it was to find Ben and Yasopp out on deck, standing by the railing. Their conversation ceased at his arrival, before Ben sighed around his cigarette. “You’re an idiot.”

Shanks frowned. “I haven’t even said anything.”

Ben snorted, but he didn’t smile, and there was an uncompromising truth in his voice when he said, simply, “With that face? You’re saying everything.”

 

—

 

He didn’t go to the bar the next morning.

Shanks didn’t know if it was for Makino’s sake or his own, and it might be a twinge too dramatic for someone fast approaching thirty, but he’d dug himself a proper hole now and so he might as well sit and stew in it.

The afternoon dragged its feet, his ship quiet and bobbing gently in waters that looked too calm for the havoc this little place had caused in his life, having nudged him so thoroughly off his once-steady course he was still reeling from it, and he’d been up and pacing restlessly for a good two hours before he realised that he couldn’t spend the rest of the week like this — he’d lose his mind.

But then, seeming by some divine stroke of luck—or the opposite, which could just as easily be the case, in Shanks’ experience—he was spared the trouble of coming up with a solution when the Den Den Mushi on his desk perked up.

And he couldn’t tell if it was relief or regret he felt when the news ticked in that Garp’s ship had been spotted two islands over, but whichever it was, at lunch he informed the navigator of their imminent and necessary departure.

He was surprised to find the man blinking. “So soon?”

 _Honestly,_ Shanks thought, and had to refrain from shaking his head. Did his whole crew know?

“Just get her fit for sailing,” he said, and turned to leave before he had to answer any more questions.

Ben intercepted him on his way to the galley. “Decided to tuck your tail between your legs?”

There was no point in blaming it all on Garp, and so Shanks didn’t. “Better than to continue sticking my foot in my mouth.”

Ben just looked at him. “You don’t usually give up this easily.”

“For her sake, I think it might be for the best.”

“You don’t give her enough credit,” Ben said, when Shanks walked past him, and he paused in front of the door to the galley.

Inclining his head, the look Shanks offered him was searching, if not openly suspicious, but Ben’s expression remained unreadable. “Why do you say that?”

Ben shrugged. “No reason.”

Oh, he wasn’t even _trying_ to hide it now.

“Ben Beckman,” Shanks said, and didn’t know whether to sound reproachful or amused. As long as it wasn’t hopeful, although it felt like a losing battle, as he asked, “What did you do?”

Ben’s only response was to raise his brows, as though to profess his innocence, before he turned to walk away, and Shanks had to keep himself from calling after him to demand answers. For all his teasing, Ben wasn’t cruel by nature, and wouldn’t have brought it up at all if he had no reason to. Which left only one possibility, really.

He didn’t want to hope, and knew it wouldn’t do him any favours.

But damn it if he wasn’t an incurable optimist.

“So,” Shanks said, entering the galley, only to find the conversation changing tracks so fast he was surprised they didn’t all get a whiplash.

“I take it there’s no point in asking if there’s a betting pool?”

 

—

 

He hadn’t the faintest idea what Ben had said or done in his absence, but going by the look on his face—not to mention his reputation as a master strategist and the fact that he was far too cunning for anyone’s good—Shanks wasn’t beyond accusing him of orchestrating whatever events that had led to Makino abandoning her tightly treasured decency, only to scream Shanks’ name for the whole island to hear.

Not that he was in any way complaining. Not with the sight of her, chest heaving with her breaths from having come running at a dead sprint, and the hem of her thin nightdress barely allowing for proper coverage where it brushed her thighs, bared to the cold.

Watching her, Shanks was fairly certain there was a bodice ripper in her library somewhere with this exact picture on the front.

Dropping down from the ship, he marvelled silently at the turn of events, and didn’t stop himself from hoping now, feeling it cresting like a wave against his ribcage as he moved to cover the distance between them, the ship and the sea at his back, but his attention seized by Makino where she stood.

"A little early for you to be out and about, my dear?"

He came to a stop in front of her, positioning himself so as not to give his whole crew a show, and seeming to finally take note of her state of dress, Makino’s gaze dropped to her feet.

"I know I look ridiculous," she began—then winced, and Shanks had a mind to point out that from where he was standing she looked anything but that. "I mean, I know this—that this might be _confusing,_ considering what I said before, and I know you have no reason to listen to what I have to say, but the thing is, I've—I've been thinking," she continued, while taking great pains not to look directly at his face.

"I know what I said, but I can't—I can't stop thinking about you…it.” She raised her hand in a gesture, indicating the space between them. “ _This._ ”

Clearly frustrated, the breath that left her was a harsher sound than he’d ever heard from her, and Shanks almost couldn’t contain his smile. "What I'm _trying_ to say is—”

One finger hooking under her chin, he kissed her before she could finish, halting the words as he pulled her close, like he’d wanted to the night before. But her surprise this time was of a different sort, muffled with a startled sound against his mouth, and instead of freezing up she sank into him, tilting her head shyly, her lips parting hesitantly under his.

The breeze carried a cat-call from the ship, and Shanks felt Makino stiffen, but ducking his head to deepen the kiss, he pulled her to him, effectively shielding her from their entirely unhelpful audience, who were all going to be scrubbing the deck for the next month for their cheek.

He felt as she relaxed a bit, softening—all of her _soft_ , her nightdress and her bare skin, and the way she touched him, shyly, the careful press of her mouth against his stealing his breath, a tender sincerity that was unlike any kiss he’d ever been given. Her hands curled in his cloak, gently fretting, like she couldn’t quite decide where she wanted to put them.

Drawing back, it was to find her smiling—like she couldn’t quite help herself. And when his grin widened, his thoughts no less obvious than hers, although not nearly as chaste, Shanks was pleased to see her cheeks flushing, a lovely combination with her hair in sleepy tangles, and it was going to take a while before he got _that_ image out of his head, coupled with the memory of how she felt, her body pressed against his.

He took care not to stand too close, and had enough mind left to hope she wouldn’t look down, to find the evidence of what that kiss had done to him. However honest, Shanks had the feeling a blatant erection might ruin the moment.

"I was right,” he said then, and watched as Makino blinked slowly. She looked a little dazed. It was a wondrously gratifying sight.

"What?"

Leaning closer, he hid his smile against her hair, hoping she wouldn’t see all the things that sat in it—fearing that if she did, she might just take her chances at running after all. "Told you I'd have you calling me ‘Shanks’ before the week was up."

He felt her laughter, sounding startled, but when she looked up at him her smile was curiously fond. "So you did.”

The wind had picked up, the breeze stirring the folds of his cloak and her hair where it fell, loose about her face. Standing so close to the wharf, there was little mercy in that cold kiss, not nearly as tender as hers had been.

Shanks caught her shiver, and for all that he’d tried to keep his gaze level with hers, it was hard dragging his eyes up now, away from the nightdress and her naked legs, and her small breasts, visible through the sheer fabric.

He realised suddenly just how intimate it was to see her this way, after she’d been so guarded with herself, and before he could take too long to think about it he was removing his cloak, to wrap it around her shoulders.

"Looks like I've been a bad influence," he mused, as he fastened it at her neck, his focus claimed by the skin of her collar, soft as silk under his fingertips, before he touched her nose gently, teasing. "Although at least I had enough sense to wear shoes, even if they're only sandals.”

Makino pulled his cloak closer around her; it was almost comically large on her tiny frame, but the gratitude in her expression was as earnest as her blush. And the thought that followed was as sudden as it was fierce; that if she ever did grow comfortable enough to share more intimate aspects of herself with him, he wanted her to do so willingly.

As though having read his mind, Makino stepped forward, sudden determination in the press of her brow and her intention clear, making his brows lift as she pushed up on her toes—

—and promptly knocked her head against his chin.

Shanks watched as mortification erupted across her expression, her bold attempt thwarted by bodily logistics, but before she’d had time to back away he’d moved, bending his head to catch her mouth, his hands coming up to cradle her face, pulling her close for a kiss so deep, it left no room for embarrassment, and when she _yielded_ it took conscious effort to remember that they were being observed.

His breath felt like it was eluding him, and the way she gasped against his mouth dropped with a pang of want straight into his gut, leaving him lightheaded.

"That's my favourite cloak, you know,” he said, the words murmured to her lips, aware of how his voice sounded, roughened with want in a way that was no less obvious than his now painful erection. “It would be a shame if I forgot it somewhere." He looked at her—took in her wide eyes and her tousled hair, and wondered what it would be like, waking to see her like that, first thing in the morning. "I might just have to come back and get it."

Her answering smile was giddy, and when she spoke she sounded unfairly breathless. "We better make sure you don't forget it, then."

"I am pretty forgetful,” Shanks agreed. “Ben calls it the bane of his existence, and he might just have a point."

He watched as her gaze shifted towards the ship, and he followed it, only to discover that his crew had abandoned basic decency to shameless voyeurism.

"There was a bet on whether or not you would show," he said, his brows furrowing, a single nudge of haki accompanying the silent warning, and there was a trickle of satisfaction as the pirates on deck scrambled to pursue other, less voyeuristic hobbies.

"Oh really?” Makino asked.

"Oh aye."

She tilted her head to the side, the gesture politely reserved, but the eyes holding his were full of questions. "And what did you bet I would do, Captain?"

Shanks thought of the galley, and that foolish hope. "I might have increased my private coffers. With quite a bit,” he fibbed, unwilling to admit now that he’d feared she wouldn’t show. “Although in my defence, Yasopp was the only one who bet against it."

Makino blinked, surprised. "Yasopp? Why?"

Shanks remembered the conversation—remembered the regret in Yasopp’s eyes, and the wife and son who sat, always at the forefront of his mind. "Said you had too much sense. Guess you proved him wrong." She smacked his arm good-naturedly, and his laughter pulled free. "Hey— _I_ had faith in you!"

"You don't think I have any sense!"

"Ah, ah. _Yasopp_ said that. I had great faith in you, mostly.” His expression softened, and her honesty made him bold, made him forget about guarding himself, as he admitted, quietly, “You had me worried for a minute there, though."

He felt her hands as they came to wrap around one of his, slender bird-bone fingers gripping it with surprising strength. "You had me worried, you mean,” Makino said, her voice gentle but her thoughts loud on her face. “I thought I was too late."

Shanks twisted his hand, fingers curving under hers, to lift her knuckles to his lips. A particular favourite of hers, he’d deduced that much from their first meeting, and he felt his smile stretching, thinking about it. "Ben _was_ weirdly adamant we take our sweet time preparing the ship,” he said. “I have a feeling he had more money running in that bet than anyone else."

"A sly one, that,” Makino said. “Make sure he stays out of trouble?"

"That’s quite the task you're giving me. Ben being the rascal that he is."

"Says the one reckless enough for the lot you combined."

His hand was over his heart, an exaggerated show of feigned hurt, and wholly anticipated, going by the enduring smile on her face. His own was hard to contain. "You wound me, Makino. At this rate I'll have to spar with Ben daily if I want to keep up with your comebacks."

She didn’t look particularly upset at the prospect. "Someone has to keep you on your toes, Captain."

"Shanks?" he tried.

"Captain."

"But you said it so well!"

Her smile curved, entirely too demure. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, mildly. " _Captain_."

"God, listen to you," Shanks laughed, transfixed by the sight of her, wrapped in his cloak, and the ease that sat in her whole being, meeting his teasing word-for-word. "So much _cheek._ I'd kiss you, but I'm a little afraid of how you'd respond to that now, worthy adversary that you turned out to be."

The smile she gave him was too honest to be convincingly coy, and he’d never been more delighted by a fact in his life, as Makino said, "You could always try and see what happens."

He wanted to—wanted nothing more than to pull her close and keep her there until the sun rose, but the reminder of why they were setting sail in the first place was hard to ignore. It wouldn’t be a very good sunrise for either of them if they were still present when Garp’s ship pulled ashore.

Bending down, Shanks pressed a kiss to her brow. "It's time for us to get going,” he told her, reluctance sitting bright in the words, and the kiss where it lingered, before he reached to tuck her hair behind her ear. “I have a feeling we'll need to cover some distance before the sun climbs too high.”

She wanted to pry, he could tell, but what she said instead was, "Tell Yasopp-san I'm sorry I'm not as sensible as he'd have me be.”

Oh, he _would_ , Shanks thought, his grin hard to remove, despite the effort it took to turn away from her, and to walk back to his ship. He felt the weight of her eyes, watching him leave, and his smile had to be breaking some sort of record for smitten ridiculousness, he knew, but couldn’t be bothered to even try and wipe it off.

He was still grinning when he came aboard, heart far too light to mind the knowing smiles that sprung up in his wake, all the way across the deck to his quarters. And even as he tossed them a warning glance over his shoulder, Shanks knew his expression betrayed his attempted annoyance as he made to close the door behind him.

“It’s a miracle I put up with you all.”

 

—

 

He found more books. Or rather, they found their way into his keeping—left on the desk in his quarters, or beside his morning cup of coffee in the galley. Paperbacks in various states of wear, each cover more suggestive than the next, and some heavy, hard-to-read tomes that practically screamed _Government banned_ , and that might better serve as decoration. Or creative blunt weapons.

Some included notes, and he knew the individual handwriting of his entire crew, and could tell with a glance who each of the culprits were.

‘ _Has she read this one?’_ asked one, and another: ‘ _Came across this on that last island. It’s supposed to be based on true events, but I doubt it. There’s a dragon in chapter 3, and a really far-fetched love scene on top of a volcano (it’s hot!!).’_ And on the same note, a little further down: _‘Inspiration...?’_

And his favourite: ' _This one might be a little too saucy for Ma-chan, but you never know!’,_ at the bottom of which had been doodled a lewd sketch and a smiley face.

Shanks kept them all, dusted them off and stacked them neatly on his desk for safekeeping. And on long nights as the ship crawled her lazy path across the water, he’d pick one up to read, imagining the mellow cadence of her voice, and wondering if she’d enjoy the story. The exciting, swashbuckling adventures he moved to the top of the pile, dog-earing important scenes and leaving notes in the margins for her to find. Those were his favourite; the ones that ended happily, and more often than not with a celebration of some sort.

And those that ended tragically—the hero, dead before some great romantic discovery, or the heroine sacrificed for cheap plot-progression—those he’d move to the bottom of the pile. No need to challenge the Fates, after all. They were already cruel enough without incentive.

 

—

 

He’d been aware for some time now that a change had taken place—that _she_ had changed something, fundamentally—but beyond the fact that he seemed happily incapable of thinking about anything else these days, there was one event that solidified the realisation that this was far more than just a passing infatuation.

They’d just pulled into port, seeking refuge on an island not far off their original course, having been caught with their pants down by a bout of terrible weather, so much sleet and ice that even Shanks’ navigator, who didn’t flinch at anything, hell or high water, had advised against proceeding. Not that it was a hard decision to make, the little harbour town seeming all too tempting, after weeks on the open sea with freezing weather and only each other for company.

The cold cut with a razor’s edge as they walked off the gangway, the wind tossing up flurries of snow, seeming almost out of spite, and even his new cloak didn’t help ward off the chill as they waded through the sleet into the town, built like a fort, as though to withstand the assault of the sea, and the island’s natural climate.

He heard them muttering, and even Shanks had to admit that his optimism faltered at the dismal sight—the houses stacked along the promenade, their doors closed and their windows dark and shuttered.

Thankfully, their spell of bad luck didn’t extend beyond the weather, and it didn’t take them long to locate a tavern, tucked snugly between a foundry and an out-of-business brothel (the broken sign of which announced, a tad ironically, _Hymen’s Breach_ ), a stone’s throw from the wharf.

The front door was heavy, solid oak and iron, and Shanks had to drag it open, but stepping through the doorway brought a gust of desperately welcome warmth, and laughter, both washing across him as he walked across the threshold, the door slamming shut behind them, cutting them off from the cold and the wilful flurries that had chased them inside.

Expelling what felt like a long-held breath, a white cloud before the warmth of the room stole it, Shanks surveyed the taphouse, his smile stretching at the sight.

Thick wooden walls kept the cold out, sturdy boards lining the room from floor to ceiling, the interior invoking the same, heavily guarded impression as the rest of the town, but despite its sparse trappings there was an unmistakable warmth to it; in the simple brass lamps, and the thick rugs pinned along the far wall.

It wasn’t the cleanest he’d ever set foot in—only one bar held that honour, and wasn’t likely to be challenged any time soon—but there was a fire roaring in the hearth across the room, and the smell of ale beckoned invitingly.

“Perfect,” Shanks said, the declaration met with agreement as his crew moved inside to make themselves comfortable. Having looked up at their arrival, the patrons already seated at the tables greeted them with a welcoming holler, and more laughter.

His sandals were dripping, the melting snow pooling around his feet where he stood, and Shanks shook the snow from his hair and the folds of his cloak, before making towards the bar.

The woman behind the counter glanced up, her brows quirking at the sight of him, resting only a moment longer on his hair, before they moved to meet his, and a knowing smile formed along her full mouth. “Oh?” she laughed, as she wiped her hands on a rag. “Pirates, are you?”

She wasn’t much younger than him, Shanks thought—a year or two at the most, with clear green eyes and hair that gleamed dark gold in the lamplight. She had it pinned at the back of her head, a few strands coming loose to frame her face.

Grinning, he leaned his weight on the counter, before casting a glance across the room, and his crew where they’d taken their seats. “As we live and breathe.” He looked back at her, still watching him. “Much to the Government’s continued grief, but then we try our damnedest to keep it that way.”

She had a nice laugh. Loud, and without qualms. “An _honest_ pirate,” she corrected, musingly. “How about that.”

“It’s been known to happen,” Shanks countered smoothly. “You’ll find that I’m a delightful contradiction. In many aspects.”

The sound she made somehow managed to be both intrigued and wholly knowing. “Oh, I’ll believe it.” Then, “Ketya,” she said, by way of greeting. Lit by the lamplight, her eyes shone, bright and curious. “Nice to meet you…?”

He smiled. “Shanks.”

She gave another contemplative hum, but didn’t repeat it back, as though storing it away for later. “This your crew?” she asked instead, with a nod at the room behind him.

Shanks followed her gaze. “They are.” Looking across the room found Ben watching him, expression entirely level, but in no way ambiguous. Ignoring it, Shanks turned back to the barmaid. “Rowdy bunch. You’ll forgive the noise level.”

She smiled, cocking her head to the side. “All is forgiven. I don’t mind a little noise.”

Oh, she wasn’t even attempting to be subtle. And he realised then how accustomed he’d become to expecting an entirely different sort of banter. For a second, it threw him for a complete loop.

Then he’d gathered himself, and with a laugh and a charming smile, said, “Well, you’re in luck. I’m known for being particularly loud.”

Her eyes hooded at that, and when she spoke her voice had a clearly suggestive lilt. “Noted.”

He’d expected a blush, Shanks realised. And he didn’t know what was more unsettling—the fact that it wasn’t what he got, or that he was disappointed.

Ketya was still watching him, seeming pleased to have caught him off guard. And gods, but there’d been a time not too long ago where he would have jumped at the invitation in her eyes, offered without a shred of ambiguity. It was a far cry from the girl who’d watched him so warily, the whole evening after he’d first stepped through the doorway of her bar.

This one didn’t look wary, and met his eyes without flinching. And it wasn’t hard to see what she was thinking—not because she had such an easy face to read, but because she let him.

Somehow, even that made him pause, where he should have been delighted.

“What can I get you then, Captain?” she asked, with the clear implication that his answer didn’t need to have anything to do with what she was serving—at least not in glasses.

He didn’t know what prompted it—the title wasn’t exactly something he was unused to hearing, but for some reason, hearing it from her and with that particular inflection struck an uncomfortable chord, and before he knew what he was doing, he found himself saying, “Just ‘Shanks’ is fine.”

Ketya hummed, her voice dipping with a pleased-sounding lilt. “Shanks,” she said now, seeming to taste the sound of it on her tongue.

Distracted by his own thoughts more than the blatant attraction she flaunted without reserve, he asked for a glass of ale, and watched as she tapped it for him, talking all the while—told him she wasn’t the tavern owner but that she worked part-time, that she longed to get off the island, to get out of North Blue altogether and to go somewhere sunny where they’d never heard of snow—until the froth spilled over her fingers and she laughed a colourful curse, touching them to her lips, sucking the ale off and throwing him a glance as she did.

Shanks waited for the stirring in his gut, but came up short.

If she noticed, Ketya didn’t let on. And she was talkative and quick to laugh, as warm as the tavern room, and once he might have been eager to talk about himself, but instead Shanks found himself mostly listening, watching as she worked, gaze lingering inexplicably on glasses that were hastily dried before being put away, and the countertop only wiped once in a while between servings. She didn’t seem to mind the mess behind the counter, coins in careless piles and paper notes tucked under dirty glasses, half-forgotten, and no careful lists to keep track of orders, only crumbled notes, most of them stuffed haphazardly into the pocket of her apron, the fabric stained and patched in several places.

Wiping her hands on it, she caught him looking, her expression brightening, and Shanks only belatedly realised she thought he’d been staring at something else entirely.

Not that she was wrong for assuming, generously shaped as she was, plump curves exaggerated only a little by the tight cinch of her dress, and the neckline where it plunged, emphasising a cheerful cleavage, but the delayed realisation that neither had even tempted his notice before now was such a staggering fact, it took the rest of him a moment to catch up.

“So where are you headed?” she asked, as she made to tap another glass for him, throwing a look over her shoulder with the question.

Shanks considered her, and the answer, which would once have been _wherever the wind takes us_ , offered with a grin as suggestive as her own, but both the answer and his smile were different now, each holding a gentler truth.

And, “East Blue,” he said, at length.

“Really?” she laughed, sounding surprised. He wondered if she’d expected him to say something along the lines of what he usually would. “What’s there to see in East Blue?”

That made his smile widen, and he saw how her brows lifted with obvious interest, sparked by the soft chuckle he let slip.

“More than you’d think,” Shanks said, remembering a similar conversation, not that long ago, although Makino had been rather more dubious about his claims to the same. He wondered what she was doing now. “You know what they say—you shouldn’t judge a sea by its...water? Wait, that doesn’t sound right.”

Ketya only laughed. “No, but I can see where you were going with it. And I guess you’re right. You can find adventure anywhere,” she said, as she put his refilled glass down before him, the words familiar, although her eyes told him quite plainly what she meant by _adventure_ , before she added, her fingers skirting the arch of his wrist as she drew away, “if you’re looking for it.”

She turned to answer another order, the din of the taproom surging in to fill the space she’d left, seeming to crash against him where he sat at the counter, feeling suddenly out of touch, like he’d forgotten some fundamental skill.

The rest of the night proceeded in a similar fashion. He moved to one of the tables in the back, and when she brought them another round she lingered for a bit, coming to stand by his chair. She greeted his crew, her laughter still that loud, uncaring sound that should have seized his interest the first time hearing it, but hearing it now, Shanks felt curiously detached, and when he rooted through his head he had to pause, realising he’d been looking for an entirely different sound; softer, but still capable of being loud, if prompted.

He felt her hand resting on the back of his chair, not quite a touch—felt the warmth of it against his back, and what it suggested, even before her eyes lowered to seek his.

And what would transpire after that kind of look should be obvious to anyone, at least to those in his crew, who’d witnessed their share of similar encounters, but what happened instead wasn’t anything remotely close to the norm.

She was about to get another round when she paused. “You know,” she murmured. Shanks felt her breasts where they pressed into his shoulder, as she bent her head towards his ear, “I don’t live far. My bed will be warmer than your ship in this weather, I reckon.”

It should have been a tempting invitation, for no other reason than the fact that she was beautiful, and it really was cold as balls, but even feeling her pressed up against him, and the promise in the weight of her look, all he felt was the curious need to be elsewhere—a warmer island, a different bar, and under a much gentler spell than the bright, hungry eyes holding his now.

He thought of Makino—of the shy kiss she’d pressed to his mouth, standing by the wharf in her nightdress. The petite frame of her body, wrapped in his cloak.

“Thank you for the offer,” Shanks said, his smile genuine, if apologetic, “but I think I’ll take my chances with the ship.”

He watched as her expression fell. “You sure?” she asked, her mouth downturned at the corners.

When he nodded, she made a noise of disappointment, running her fingers through his hair, the gesture effortlessly intimate, but somehow, all he could think about were the small, fretting hands that had barely dared to touch him, as she sighed, “Shame. You look like a good time.”

She wasn’t wrong, and once, Shanks would have told her that he was and more besides, while offering her the smile that would convince her, even before he took the time to do so himself.

But looking at her—all of her loud and bold and shameless, like him—all he said was, “Sorry.”

She shrugged one shoulder, her smile lifting. Beyond her disappointment, the rejection didn’t seem to have fazed her all that much. “Can’t fault a girl for trying.” Then with a wink, she was making for the bar, her retreating shape dragging more than one longing gaze from the room.

There was a telling silence around their table, and when Shanks looked up it was to find them all watching him—along with the rest of his crew, seated around neighbouring tables, some even from across the room by the bar—their expressions displaying varying degrees of wonderment.

He did, however, notice that none of them looked particularly _surprised_.

Yasopp in particular was wearing an altogether _too_ knowing expression. “She was pretty,” he mused, looking in the direction Ketya had disappeared.

“She was,” Shanks agreed, without following his gaze.

For his part, Ben said nothing, just exhaled, before tucking his cigarette back between his teeth, a smile curving around it. Shanks thought he might as well have shouted his amusement to the room.

They were all still looking at him, and Yasopp wasn’t the only one being unashamedly obvious about it now.

“What?” Shanks asked, looking at Yasopp, who was nearest, although the questioned was directed at the lot of them.

“Nothing,” Yasopp said, and even smiling, Shanks caught the shadow of regret behind his eyes, there before it was gone. “I’ve just been where you are, is all.”

He wasn’t stupid. He knew what had changed, knew _why_ he’d been feeling off his game all night, and he knew what Yasopp was suggesting, and not even subtly at that, but it still felt like too much, admitting it.

“And where’s that?” Shanks asked.

Yasopp just smiled, although it looked a twinge sad. “The best place in the world to be,” he said, before he added, with a sigh as he reached for his drink, “and the worst.”

 


	2. a captain, a fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avast ye! Naughty shenanigans ahead in this chapter, some of it **E-rated**. Just a heads up, for those who'd like to skip it!

Yasopp hadn’t exaggerated.

The din of the tavern pressed down on his shoulders, and like in the throes of a storm at sea, he was in his element, exhilarated by the honest merriment around him, and happily unable to tear his eyes away from Makino’s face.

It had long since crossed over from ridiculous into downright absurdity. He was fast approaching thirty, but every time she even glanced in his direction, his heart proceeded to remind him of its existence, by vaulting into his throat, and all he could do was grin stupidly in return. And no matter how busy she was—no matter how many voices called her name, begging for her attention—her gaze kept fleeting back to his, as though she couldn’t help herself, either.

It made his stomach do strange things, like he’d had too much of a particularly giggly vintage, and he felt lightheaded and half-delirious with the persisting need to tug at her hand, to bring her attention back whenever it drifted away from him. And that itself wasn’t necessarily out of character—he was, after all, known for being something of an attention hog—but what _was_ unlike him was the sudden need to be away from the noise and the party, somewhere private where he could pull her close, and where he could _touch_ her, more than their fingers bumping as she passed by his table, or when she handed him a glass.

She was moving about the room now, navigating between the crowded tables with an ease that barely seemed to require thought, a tray balanced on her fingertips; a different barmaid than the one they’d encountered that first day, who’d barely known what to do with them all. Now she distributed drinks without pause, having catalogued everyone’s poison of preference, and stopped by each table to exchange a few words, her laughter reaching him as he sought it through the louder noises filling her bar.

There was a new ease about her now as she quietly took charge, collecting used glasses and passing quietly warning glances at spilled drinks and discarded cutlery. Observing her moving about, it reminded Shanks of a captain at the helm, surveying a busy deck.

It was entirely unfair, the things that thought did to him.

Her eyes sought his again, before she ducked her head with a startled smile upon catching him staring, and he followed her all the way back to the bar, his breaths sitting a little heavier in his chest.

God, he wanted to touch her. Just hearing her laughing made him wonder what other sounds he could draw from her, and how—made him wonder what she liked, and if she even knew.

It was maddening, feeling this way, like he was constantly teetering, heart on the edge of some precipice, like a slippery deck. It was hard to _breathe_ right, looking at her, her eyes dark and her hair escaping her kerchief, a light flush of exertion in her cheeks, and the way her tongue would occasionally dart out to wet her lips.

It was a little obscene, to tell the truth.

The evening passed him by in a blur, his heart in his throat and certain other things unavoidably hard, and he made a point of sitting so she wouldn’t accidentally notice.

Someone poured her a drink. It might have been him, and Shanks caught her gaze, holding it for the span of a breath before she’d lifted it to her lips and tossed it back. Someone _hooted_ — not Shanks this time, struck speechless by the sight, the bob of her throat and the way her smile stretched behind the rim of the glass, her eyes gleaming, bright with pleasure.

He briefly considered the very real necessity of going for a swim in the bay.

More drinks followed, warming his stomach along with his laughter and the blood running hot in his veins, and he barely noticed the rest of his crew leaving. Ben’s doing, no doubt, but Shanks was too busy watching Makino to make note of their departure, and it wasn’t until she pointed it out that he became aware it was just the two of them left.

“Looks like the party is over,” she said, leaning her elbows on the counter. At some point she’d tugged open the collar of her blouse, a lovely plum-coloured thing that hugged her chest and brought out the roses in her cheeks. She'd discarded her kerchief, and it allowed her hair to fall loose now, brushing her jaw.

It was a feat dragging his eyes away, and he tried to keep his voice light, and his smile from being too obvious. “In my experience, a party only ends when there’s nothing left to celebrate.”

Her eyes twinkled, and Shanks watched as she cocked her head, gently assessing. “And there's always something to celebrate, is that what you’re implying?”

He was quickly surrendering his attempts at tempering his grin, but then it felt like a losing battle, with her looking at him like that. “I’m a pirate, Makino. I’ll celebrate good weather as easily as a cargo full of loot and drink. There’s always a reason to party.”

She still had her head tilted, seeming to take him in. “And what about right now?" she asked. "Would you celebrate the tides, or a fair wind?”

It was a laden question. Even with his head spinning from the drink and her general proximity, he’d garnered that much. And there was that feeling of teetering again; the sense that he was poised on a blade’s edge, destined either to plummet or soar.

“I would celebrate,” Shanks said, voice dipping into something too low for teasing as he met her gaze squarely with his own, “that I’m in the company of a beautiful girl, whose very presence has made me forget a whole number of things, some of which I probably shouldn’t forget, but there you go.”

Her smile had a distinctly pleased edge, quick and delighted where it chased across her lips. “Oh really? Blaming me for your forgetfulness now?”

His answer came without thinking. “Yeah, well, when you look at me like _that_ , it’s kind of hard to remember there’s anything else in this world but you.”

Her smile faltered, and this time it was genuine surprise that flickered across her face. And there was a second where he wondered if he’d stepped too far, if he’d let his heart get the better of him, but his doubt wasn’t given long to get comfortable as Shanks felt her hand touching his wrist, a silent question alighting in her eyes where they held his.

And he didn’t stop to think as her fingers curled around his wrist, only to tug him out of his chair, towards the stairs.

He followed, his heart beating so loudly in his chest he wondered if she could hear it, his eyes fixed on her back as she climbed the stairs, leading him down the corridor from the landing.

He was barely paying attention to where they were going, gripped by the quiet intent in her presence more than the small hand in his, the anticipation in his chest brimming, then pushing up his throat, spilling over with a breath as he loosened his fingers from hers to tug at her elbow, pulling her back to his chest as he shoved his mouth against hers.

Their teeth clashed as he muffled the gasp that stuttered out of her, her lips parting under his, and before he could think he’d pushed his tongue into her mouth, burying his fingers in her hair as he kissed her, and so hard he nearly lost his footing.

They stumbled over the doorstep to her bedroom, still kissing, no grace in the hungry slant of his mouth over hers as he walked her backwards, feeling how she fit under his hands, soft and pliant as she returned the kiss, her tongue slipping shyly past his when he tilted her head back roughly to deepen it, catching the little sound that escaped her.

The room was dark, but he found his way, guiding her towards the bed, the anticipation of what awaited so great he almost stumbled in his step, driven to complete gracelessness by the thought of having her, near unbearable now that it was at his fingertips.

The backs of her legs hitting the bed, Shanks eased her down until she sat on the mattress, the kiss broken as he reached to unbutton her blouse, his hands shaking as he slipped them free, one by one until it fell open, to slide off the white crest of her shoulder.

He wanted her so much he couldn’t think straight— _needed_ to know what it would feel like, being buried in her to the hilt, her warmth encasing him as she moved with him, splayed beneath him or arched above him.

He wondered what she looked like when she came, and if it would be quietly or with his name on her tongue, but with that thought followed another, the realisation that this was uncharted waters for her, and that his enthusiasm had a tendency to be a bit overwhelming.

He forced himself to slow down, to not rush her, every touch he gave deliberate, until his breath sat, ragged in his chest.

He was standing above her, having pushed between her knees where she sat on the bed. Her skirt had ridden up her thighs, baring the hem of a sheer stocking, and sketching his fingers up her leg to slip them beneath it, Shanks felt how she shivered. But he didn't push his hand under her skirt, reaching instead to cup her cheek, kissing her deeply, until she was sinking against him, her hands worrying his shirt, as though she couldn’t decide if she wanted to pull it closed or rip it off.

Feeling how she breathed into the kiss, he brushed his knuckles along the curve of a small breast, bared to the air, her skin so soft it had a groan hooking in his throat, and he felt how her nipple firmed under his touch, and the sound that left her, a tiny, startled thing.

Pushing her blouse all the way off her shoulders, he curved his fingers around them, perfect where they fit into his palms, before he moved to touch her further, pausing at her waist, so small his hands spanned the whole of it easily, his sword-callouses catching on her skin.

He hesitated a moment, before reaching up to cup his hand around her breast, sweeping his thumb across it once, lightly, and heard as her response was lost against his mouth.

He felt how her hands shook, still gripping his shirt, and frowned, releasing her breast to curl his fingers around her wrists, thumbs brushing the fragile skin where her pulse leaped to meet him.

It was an attempt to soothe, her nervousness painfully evident now, but it didn’t do much good, and drawing back, Shanks watched her eyes squeeze shut and wondered, the thought abruptly sobering, if she was fighting back tears.

Ducking his head, he brushed a kiss to her jaw, lingering for a breath before moving lower, seeking the soft skin just beneath her ear, and it seemed to do the trick. She relaxed a bit, her head tipped back to give him better access, and the shivering sigh that pulled from her chest didn't speak of displeasure.

It made his smile stretch along her skin as he sucked at it gently, before moving further down, a chaste kiss pressed to the hollow of her breastbone, his nose nudged against her skin as he caught his breath, before he moved to kiss her breast, taking it in his mouth as he curled his tongue around a pert nipple, hoping to tease out that little sound again.

It did, and brighter than before, a whimper where it caught against her lips, the loveliest sound he'd ever heard, but she still hadn’t stopped shaking, and the fact sobered him up like a bucket of cold water—enough for him to pull back and say, quietly, “Makino.”

She didn’t answer, but he felt the trembling clench of her fingers where he held her wrists. “You're shaking."

Her presence, usually so calm, so welcoming, stirred with a ripple, but, “I'm fine,” Makino replied, swallowing thickly. “Really, I'm just—”

She couldn't seem to make herself look at him, and dropped her gaze, a shuddering breath leaving her as she bent her head.

Shanks watched her, her brow nearly pressed to his chest, like she wanted to curl in on herself. And it struck him then, just how young she was—the thought seeming only emphasised by how _small_ she looked, her tiny frame against his, the size difference abruptly staggering, her slender wrists dwarfed by his fingers where he held them.

He saw the jut of her shoulder blades beneath her skin, bare and lovely, but it wasn’t with the ease he’d hoped that she let him see her.

She was trying very hard not to meet his gaze, and releasing her wrists, he tipped her chin to make her look at him, only to find her eyes bright with tears and embarrassment etched into every angle of her face.

It wasn’t a very hard decision to make, although his regret was a profound thing. Not for the decision itself, but for letting it go so far, knowing she’d had more than one drink and that her judgement might be a bit skewed.

Pressing an apology to her temple, it was with the keen realisation that this might be the last time she’d allow him the liberty of being so close, of touching her at all, and he couldn’t keep the regret from creeping into his voice as he told her, “Take care.”

Then he was walking away, before he could look at her again; before he could see her expression, and the emotions no doubt written plainly across her face, fearing what he might find in it—but hoping, too.

And _hope_ , Shanks had long since realised, was so infinitely worse than fear.

 

—

 

“Idiot,” Ben said, when he stepped aboard the ship, and there was enough earnest condemnation in that one word to solidify the feeling that he’d properly fucked it up this time.

And so, “Yeah,” Shanks agreed, and headed straight for his cabin, if only to stop himself from turning on his heel and walking back.

The devil only knew he’d made a big enough mess of things already.

 

—

 

He caved the very next morning—well, sometime in the afternoon. As it was, he’d spent the early hours sleeping off a hangover that felt only partly due to the alcohol.

It was starting to become a familiar routine, coming awake to the thought of her, the remnants of a pleasant dream tugging at his fingertips, and the echo of her skin sitting like an imprint long after he’d shaken off the sleep—and had gotten himself off, which had become such a frequently occurring necessity, Shanks had to wonder if he’d somehow reverted back to a horny teenager without noticing.

This morning was no different, although it was regret that greeted him this time, which made him feel more than a little guilty as he finished himself off, imagining her touches instead, shyly seeking, and her small fingers as she took him in her hand. And he’d been tempted to just stay in bed, if only so he wouldn’t have to see her and have it confirmed — that she’d rather he set sail at first convenience, thank-you and fare-thee-well.

But he eventually made his way to Party’s, determined to at least set the record straight between them, and was both surprised and relieved to find her so clearly conflicted about the whole thing. Because _conflicted_ was good. Conflicted meant insecurities, not regret. It wasn’t that she’d looked at him, scars and all, and had questioned what could have possibly compelled her to let him touch her in the first place.

She was seated on the floor, her knees pulled up and his cloak wrapped around her. Her hair was mussed from sleep, the ends brushing her cheekbones tenderly, and in a way that made his fingers twitch in his lap.

"Does it sound very ridiculous if I say that I don't know exactly what I want?" Makino asked, expression so terribly serious, and wrought with so much earnest _worry_ it took conscious effort not to smile too much.

"Not ridiculous," Shanks said, honestly. "If you ask me, half the fun is in the discovery."

She looked relieved to hear it—and like she’d caught the suggestive undertone, by the warmth in her cheeks; a suddenly, wonderfully familiar thing.

But he’d meant what he’d said. Looking at her sitting across from him, Shanks thought he’d never been so sure about anything in his life than that he didn’t want to fuck this up.

And maybe if he’d been younger, her indecision would have been harder to bear, but as it was, all it sparked within him was fondness. Because he’d been twenty and impatient, brash in all his decisions and always one step ahead of his better judgement. He knew what it was like, to greet indecision with a split-second choice, made too quickly, and often without enough thought.

Now he was older—had seen more of the world than most, and had learned from his mistakes, some lessons harder than others—and seeing the care with which she guarded herself, Shanks couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been even half as wise seven years ago.

He wanted her, more than he’d ever wanted another person — wanted all of her, all her smiles and her laughter and her honest affections. It was a terribly _selfish_ thing to want for someone like him, and in a world like this. And yet the gentle, wondering smile that met his words when he told her she set the pace made it feel like the world couldn’t possibly matter less.

And if he couldn’t stop thinking about the sight of her, half-dressed and covered by his cloak, then that was his lot to deal with. He was a patient man when it came to the important things.

And she was so infinitely more important than she realised.

 

—

 

He’d noticed early on that she had a good sense of people; a keen awareness of others that complemented her compassionate nature, and that bottomless heart. It had seemed a good fit; she was a tavern owner, after all, used to meeting all sorts, and of lending an ear to those who were in the need of one, and she _cared_ , more than anyone he’d ever met. And he might have written it off as just a consequence of her chosen profession, but as he’d gotten to know her, Shanks had begun to suspect there might be more to it.

Still. He hadn’t expected _this_.

“I can’t explain it,” Makino laughed, sounding a little embarrassed, as though she’d inadvertently revealed something fiercely private.

Shanks grinned, but wasn’t about to back down that easily—not now that she’d nudged his thoughts onto this particular track. “Try.”

She shook her head, her smile scrunching up her pert nose as she gestured to him where he sat on the barstool. “You just have a—” She stopped, as though she couldn’t think of the right word, before she looked at him, and decided, “ _Presence_.”

Part of him was relieved no one else was around to see the brilliantly _stupid_ grin that had split his face.

“Presence?” Shanks mused, still grinning. “As in a palpable aura of charisma and authority? Yeah, I’ve heard that. People have been known to pass out from the sheer, compelling force of my existence. You should see the mess I leave in my wake.”

She rolled her eyes, as though he hadn’t been entirely in earnest. “Make fun of me if you want, but I’m serious. I don’t know how to explain it, there’s just...something about you.” She shrugged one shoulder delicately, and made to move past him, towards the empty tables she needed to wipe down before opening the bar. “I just _feel_ you. It’s like a…prickling at the back of my mind when you’re around, but also...more than that.”

His grin had to be giving him away, Shanks thought, but Makino didn’t seem to find anything off with it, or anything in his reaction beyond good-natured teasing. “My girl, I think that’s what they call being infatuated.”

She laughed—then blushed, and would that _ever_ stop being so intensely gratifying? “It’s not that,” she said. Then, meeting his gaze with a smile, amended softly, “Or at least it’s not _only_ that. I feel it with other people, too.”

Shanks put a hand to his heart, expression shocked. “Have you been spending time with _other people_?” At the look she shot him, he grinned, but schooling his expression into careful interest, chanced, “So how does it feel, usually? Sans infatuation, and your generally weak-kneed state whenever in the thrall of my presence.”

She’d paused in her chores, the tables forgotten, and seemed to be considering her words now, worrying the rag in her hands. Shanks noted that she hadn’t even stuttered at the suggestion of weak knees, but was too curious about what she’d say to tease her further.

“I don’t know,” Makino said at length, looking up to meet his eyes. “It’s just a sense I’ve got? I tend to attach feelings to people, and images. Colours, sometimes. And I’ve always had a way of feeling people out, I guess. I can tell who’s coming through the door without looking up, and I always know who it is if someone comes up behind me. That sort of thing.” She shrugged, before her smile curved, a little shyly. “With Ben-san, it’s like a vast mountain range. It’s always steady, and it makes me feel that everything else could be crumbling, but it still wouldn’t touch it. Lucky Roo is...big.” She laughed at his raised brows. “I don’t mean it that way! It’s...safe. Protective.” Her eyes seemed far away; Shanks wondered suddenly if she was trying to feel them out. “Yasopp-san makes me think of a bull’s eye. And I know that sounds silly, but that’s what it feels like.”

Her smile softened, into something warmly affectionate. “I can sense Luffy from across the village,” she said, before adding, a little wryly, “But then I can also usually hear him coming.”

His grin was far too delighted to pretend he didn’t know what she was talking about, or even to feign amusement at her descriptions. But of course he knew what it was—knew that it was far from _silly_ , the things she described, which indicated something far stronger than just a _sense_ , and something that Shanks was intimately familiar with. He was proficient in all three types, after all; a rarity in and of itself, and that wasn’t bragging, it was just fact. Few people could use one, let alone two types, but both, including conqueror’s haki, was practically unheard of.

But Shanks had been taught by the best. And his abilities were different now than they had been when he’d been fourteen and he’d inadvertently outed himself as a prodigy. Roger had been absolutely delighted at the discovery. Rayleigh, true to form, had been understandably wary—Shanks hadn’t exactly been a model student, too proud and too hasty, wanting to learn everything at once—but wariness had eventually mellowed into admiration, into pride.

Rayleigh had taught him everything he knew, and Shanks had spent the past ten years honing those skills to perfection. His reputation didn’t exaggerate. Well, at least not _that_.

And he recognised what Makino was talking about; that curious ability to feel people out, and to attach them certain images or thoughts. Shanks could single her out from a crowd without trouble, her presence calm, unobtrusive but still quietly compelling, like water trickling through the cracks of the world, of a room full of people and personalities bigger than hers, making room for itself without demanding it.

His smile sat, tender on his mouth now.  _Haki, huh?_

He was trying to keep himself from giving away everything he was thinking, and the full, unbridled force of his delight, observing her as she fiddled with the rag. It was clear she didn’t know, and that she’d done as most untrained observation users, writing it off as nothing more than a keen people sense.

But going by her descriptions, her knack for observation was a bit too uncanny to pass off as anything but untended talent. And people with a natural affinity for haki weren't rare, exactly, but _prodigies_ were. And Shanks had met enough of both in his life to be able to separate them. Makino was very clearly in the latter category.

“And me?” he asked then, smiling. “How do I feel?”

She looked up, meeting his eyes. “You,” Makino began, considering him where he sat, and didn’t seem to be aware that she was doing it so closely. She still had trouble looking him in the eye sometimes, but seemed to have forgotten her shyness now, as she observed him.

It was curiously arresting, being at the mercy of a pair of eyes like that. Shanks wondered if she knew.

She smiled then, shaking her head. “You’re—everywhere,” she said, her laugh a little embarrassed. But then, softer, “You’re warm. It feels like...the tingle of a drink in your stomach.” Her eyes curved upwards at the corners, and she added, with a murmur that held just a bit too much cheek to be accidental, “Sometimes, it feels a little bit like a hangover.”

Delight brimming over, Shanks threw his head back with a laugh, and caught her blush, a distinctly pleased one this time, no doubt at having prompted that reaction.

He reached for her, ignoring her startled protest about the tables she hadn’t gotten to as he pulled her to him, his hand dipping into her hair as he kissed her, and so hard he nearly slid off the barstool.

Still laughing, he felt as she melted into the kiss, the dish-rag falling from her fingers, forgotten as she reached to hesitantly grip his shirt instead, no more mention of tables or chores as he pulled her close, until she was practically leaning on him for support.

When he broke the kiss to press his brow to hers, she was grinning. “What was that for?” Makino murmured, still without stepping out of his arms, the question a little breathless.

He shook his head. “Just felt like it. I like kissing you. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it.”

She averted her eyes, cheeks flushed for a whole different reason now. “You’ve given that impression. It’s, ah—” She cleared her throat, her laughter soft. “It’s a mutual feeling.”

Shanks just watched her, smiling up at him where she stood, still in his arms, her eyes holding his and her presence wholly compelling. And he might have asked her then, so close that _she_ felt like she was everywhere, if it felt the same for her as it did for him—like he was drowning in her, a calm sea and a sun-warmed surf beckoning him forward, and like he wanted nothing more than to walk in with his eyes closed and let the water take him.

 

—

 

He wondered sometimes what she might be like—a pirate.

“Ma-chan?” Yasopp laughed, when Shanks suggested the idea. “A _pirate_?”

Shanks shrugged, eyes on the girl in question, busy stacking glasses behind the bar, stealing a moment between servings to do her favoured chores. “Why not?”

When he turned back to look at them, it was to find Yasopp wearing an openly dubious expression. Ben’s was carefully blank, aside from the telling tilt to his mouth. Lucky was eating, feigning being absorbed in his meal, although Shanks knew him better than to assume that was actually the case.

“No offence to your girl, Boss,” Yasopp began then, choosing his words with care. “But she’s just…”

“Just…?”

Yasopp gestured in the direction of the bar, where Makino had risen up on her toes, to meticulously place a newly polished glass onto a shelf above her head. Shanks followed the delicate lines of her body as she stretched, the slender muscles in her back shifting under her dress, before pausing on the perfect bow of her apron where she’d tied it around her waist.

His eyes drifted a bit lower, to the curve of her rear where the skirt of her dress hugged it.

“ _Soft_ ,” Yasopp said then, as though having plucked the word right out of Shanks’ mind. “Kind. Take your pick, but our world is neither of those things.”

“Maybe our world could use more of both of those things,” Shanks countered, and saw Yasopp’s mouth snap shut.

Ben didn’t offer his thoughts, but Shanks saw as his gaze shifted across the room, to the girl behind the bar, with her tender chores, in the clean and lovingly organised establishment they’d in no small way come to call theirs.

And he wasn’t surprised that Yasopp found it difficult to reconcile the concept of what they were with the homely softness that defined this place, and Makino, who’d been born and raised in it, and who thrived in the quiet safety, in her little routines.

“Can you really picture her as a pirate?” Yasopp asked.

Gaze still fixed on Makino, Shanks watched the way she moved; her dainty little hand where it reached to place another glass on the shelf. He saw the evening sun where it caught in her hair, tempting the green from it. The tiny shape of her, with her small, graceful movements.

And Yasopp was right. She was soft, and kind—was compassionate, and merciful, more than anyone he’d ever met, for all that he’d seen every corner of the world.

But she was also surprisingly shrewd, and sweetly cunning. She recognised the good in people, but was far from naive. She was fiercely protective of those she cared for, and stood her ground for what she thought was right, and Shanks thought the sea itself couldn’t budge that heart when it had set on something.

And so, “Yeah,” Shanks said, softly, but with more conviction than he’d admitted to anything in his life.

“I can.”

 

—

 

He’d long since made his peace with the fact that people in Fuschia had...differing opinions on his blatant attempts at wooing their beloved barmaid, but as with most things in his life, Shanks didn’t give much weight to opinions that weren’t directly relevant to the issue. In the case of his aforementioned wooing, Makino’s opinion was the only one that mattered.

And…maybe _one_ other.

“Oye. Red.”

He turned at the address, and found the knot of limbs who owned the local fabric shop watching him from her porch. He’d been on his way to join the others at the bar, but stopped now, considering her where she stood beneath the awning, weathered features shrouded in shadows.

Gnarled like a bonsai tree and just as enduring, the little woman seemed to epitomise the old warning of appearances deceiving the unwary. She was barely taller than Makino, and lamented her age loudly and without apology, but the black eyes that looked out from her ageing face were years younger, and had seen more of the sea than just the view from the Fuschia docks.

Shanks hadn’t for a second bought that she was just a regular seamstress—a fact that hadn’t escaped her, from the clever glint in her eyes whenever he caught her looking at him.

He offered her his most charming smile. “Suzume-san. You’re looking ravishing this evening.”

She grinned, a sharp-toothed delight that made him think of a shark smelling blood in the water. “Careful where you flaunt that charm, lad—I might get ideas.”

His smile stretched wider, but then he had a reputation for courting danger. From the look of her, Suzume was well aware. “I’ll heed that warning only if you want me to.”

“Bah!” she cackled, grinning. “Shameless brat. Reminds me why I like you.”

“You mean it’s not because of my charismatic nature and staggering good looks? I was so sure that was the reason.”

Her eyes twinkled, and Shanks caught as her eyes shifted to the straw hat on his head, before they’d seized his again. And there were times when she looked at him and it felt like she was seeing someone else, her eyes far away, before they sharpened again. And for all that he’d always been good at reading people, at sussing out feelings and thoughts from expressions, Shanks could never get a good read on her—at least not unless she gave him permission.

A peal of laughter slipped into the quiet, drifting out of Party’s; a clear, silver sound that drew his eyes almost despite himself, and Shanks knew she hadn’t missed the movement, from the way the skin around her eyes tightened.

She looked at him then, long and hard, all the way past his charming smiles and his cheer, straight to his marrow with near surgical precision. “Don’t you break her heart, Red. You hear me?”

His smile didn’t drop, but Shanks allowed it to ease into something softer. And there were a lot of ways to go about a conversation like this, but with a woman like her, he figured the truth would be his best bet.

And so, “I don’t think Makino’s heart is the one truly at stake here,” he confessed.

She didn’t seem surprised by his honesty. On the contrary, she seemed to have expected it. “No,” she agreed, in a way that made him feel like what she was really saying was _good answer._ “Had a feeling it wasn’t.”

Shanks considered her where she stood, watching him. It had been years since he’d last been subjected to that kind of thorough, ruthless scrutiny.

“That girl,” Suzume said then, her voice a gravelly rasp but the words curiously tender, “will love you to the ends of the goddamn ocean if your let her. It’s not a thing you enter into lightly. So you better not be thinking with your cock. Or of entering with your cock for that matter.”

The corner of her mouth jutted upwards then, and her eyes _cut_. “Although looking at you, I don’t think that’s what you’re thinking with.” She snorted, and added, wryly, “Or not _only_ that.”

Shanks might have smiled, if her words hadn’t just uprooted the truth, and so roughly he hadn’t been prepared for it. “Are you saying this for my sake, or for hers?” he asked.

Suzume smirked, still watching him with those penetrating eyes, like she could see straight through his skin, to his bones, and his foolish heart beating behind his ribcage. “I think you know.”

“She might decide I’m not worth it,” he said, putting words to that strange fear, sitting just beneath the surface of the confidence she’d torn through with a single look—that Makino would look at him one day and wonder what it was she’d thought she’d seen; that beneath the scars and the smiles he was a _pirate_ , and a girl like her deserved better than the affections of someone like him, however sincere.

“Oh, kid,” Suzume sighed, with a rough, short laugh, and Shanks couldn’t help the flicker of hope at the sound, even as her grin curved, wide and a touch deprecating—

“If you only knew.”

 

—

 

He wouldn’t discover the reason for the old girl’s cryptic words until about a few days later, seated at Makino's bar and enjoying his breakfast, and woefully unprepared for the thoughts behind the dark eyes observing him from across the polished bar-top.

She was lovely, and as had become an embarrassingly common occurrence, the sight of her stole all his thoughts upon entering, and before he could say anything else, Shanks had blurted as much, with dumbstruck earnestness instead of his usual charm, but the duck of her head and her pleased blush had made it very hard to mind the fact.

It stained her collar rosy, and it lingered on her skin as he came to take a seat at the counter, his grin still a little stupid. It was uncharacteristically early for him to even be out of bed, but he’d come to enjoy these mornings with her; a quiet hour with just the two of them before she opened her bar for business. He’d watch as she worked, knowing her routines by heart, and would take pains to distract her from them, stealing kisses as she passed, or just talking until she had to lean on the bar for support as she laughed.

“I hope you don’t think flattery is the reason I make you breakfast every morning,” Makino said, stepping out from the kitchen with a plate of food in one hand and a cup of freshly brewed coffee in the other, both little testaments of a heart that had taken the time to learn the things he liked (his eggs sunny side up, his coffee black, and her in some variant of that blouse). The smell of her cooking reached his nose, and his stomach responded, as shamelessly loud as the rest of him.

Shanks gaped, feigning shock. “Wait, it’s _not_? Have you been misleading me this whole time, and I could have had my breakfast _without_ telling you that you’re so beautiful they should put up a warning sign out front?”

She pursed her mouth, her eyes glittering at the compliment, before she quipped, “Maybe not the extra bacon.”

“Oh so it _is_ flattery that’s keeping me fed?” He flashed her a wolfish grin. “Good to know I’ll never go hungry. I have an endless supply where you’re concerned.”

She stuck her tongue out, but her laughter was as warm as her eyes, and putting the plate before him, extra bacon included, “Scoundrel. Eat up,” Makino told him pertly, before turning back to pick up her chores.

Shanks stared after her. And with how she looked, her dark eyes bright with laughter and her cheeks flushed, and their banter so light and so effortlessly teasing, it took every ounce of restraint he possessed not to let slip the glib remark that he was very much considering the thought of _eating_ , but that his appetite wasn't for breakfast.

He willed his breathing to settle. He'd overstepped once already, and he wasn't about to scare her off now by suggesting something that went much further than touches that had grown progressively bolder and kisses after she’d closed the bar, each a little deeper than the last and sending him back to his ship, uncomfortably hard, only to jerk awake from dreaming of her.

He'd often wondered how she'd welcome other kisses, no less deep but far more intimate, her legs wrapped around his neck and her hips arching against his mouth.

Shanks focused his thoughts on the plate of food in front of him, but it was difficult, not thinking about it, about _her_ , when she seemed to claim his gaze wherever he turned it. Haloed in the sunlight, she was a bright spot of colour, her yellow blouse dotted with white flowers and lined with lace as seemed to be her preference, and a deep blue skirt that hugged her waist, the corner of her apron tucked haphazardly into the waistline, courtesy of small hands that were fretting more than usual. And he might have picked up on why, if he'd had the mind to focus past the nervous tuck of her lower lip between her teeth, the sight almost begging him to cover it with his own.

 _Food_. He was there to eat, not ogle Makino until she tossed the dish-rag at this head.

He heard the glass drop, shattering on the floorboards, and when he glanced up she’d ducked behind the counter and out of sight. And he didn’t know why, but with his next breath he was out of his seat, moving around the bar to help her.

She’d picked up the scattered pieces of glass, holding them in the cup of her palm, and kneeling beside her, Shanks picked them out, before turning her hands over. "Did you cut yourself?"

She didn’t answer, and he glanced up to find her looking at him—meeting his gaze now, unflinching. And it should have told him enough, but he was too confused by her silence to put the pieces together. "Makino?"

The kiss was unexpected, the cup of her hands over his cheeks registering a second before her mouth found his, soft and insistent. And it took him a moment to respond, and to wrap his head around the sudden change and the _intent_ that rippled through her calm waters, and that showed in her actions—the tilt of her head as she sought to deepen the kiss, and the way she pressed herself against him.

A breathless chuckle, offered against her mouth, and, “ _Here_?” he asked, even as he kissed her back, not pausing to question her motives further, all too happy to yield to her seeking touches, her hands reaching for him without hesitation now.

Granted, behind the counter of her bar probably wasn’t the optimal place for what she had in mind, but he couldn’t think straight, kissing her until he barely had any breath left, before the feel of her under his hands stole the rest.

He pulled her kerchief loose, dragging his fingers through her hair, before he moved, pushing her down on her back as he climbed across her, suddenly hyper-aware of everything—her small body beneath him, her soft skin as he slipped his fingers under her blouse. He felt her own tugging at the buttons on his shirt, nothing ambiguous about her intentions now as she pushed it off his shoulders.

Following the fabric, her hands skimmed down his arms to settle on his hips, hesitating at the waistline of his pants, her fingers plucking nervously at the sash before a shy but decisive tug had it coming loose.

Grinning, Shanks slid his hand under her skirt, finding her skin warm and her breath catching as he moved it up her thigh, giving a teasing tug at her stocking before dipping them inwards.

The thin fabric of her panties met him, damp where he grazed his fingers between her legs, and he heard his own breath where it dragged from him in a rasp.

He paused, acutely aware that this was a line they’d yet to cross, before he lightly brushed the pad of his thumb over her sex through her panties, startling an entirely new sound from her, a breathless little _keen_ that continued as he rubbed her gently, feeling how the fabric soaked further under his touches, the fleeting, teasing circles of his thumb over her clit, until she was drenched and quivering beneath him, her breaths coming in sharp pants as she writhed, whimpering softly.

Feeling how ready she was, Shanks slipped his fingers under the fabric, finding the soft curls there before he reached between her silky folds, and—oh, she was _wet_ , was positively slick from it, her hips tilting hesitantly to meet his touch as her breath hitched in a stutter.

“This okay?” he murmured the question under her ear, as he carefully pushed one finger inside her, and her answer was another little moan, breathlessly lovely where it broke on her tongue, before she opened her legs a little more. His hand was large where it cupped her, one of his fingers already enough to fill her, and he felt how she clenched around it as he withdrew, before giving another slow thrust inside her, prompting another little keen as she pushed back against his hand shyly, as though wanting more.

He might have complied—might have just taken her that way, against the floor with his fingers fucking her until she came, compelled by the feel of her, slippery-wet as he pumped them into her roughly, the rest of her trembling where she lay beneath him, her skirt pushed up her hips and her blouse unbuttoned, baring her small breasts.

But the need to be inside her won out over his patience, and dragging his hand away, he reached for the zipper of her skirt. And it didn't take long, working it loose, and the knot of her apron, her hands pushing his pants down his hips, until there was no fabric left between them and the feel of her in his arms, her bare skin against his and her breasts pressed to his chest, was enough to drag out a groan from deep within him, lost against her ear with her name.

He was painfully aware of how hard he was, and knew she felt it by the startled noise she made as his stiff length nudged against her thigh, prompting his grin to stretch, wide and delighted. And he felt lightheaded—felt drunk with her, half-drowned in her, the anticipation knotting in his muscles so great his arms shook as he held himself above her—

He heard the footsteps, and mentally berated himself for letting his attention slip so thoroughly it had taken him so long to react, but before Makino could open her mouth to ask he’d covered it with his hand, just as a small, curious voice rang out somewhere on the other side of the bar—

“Ma-chan?"

Horror flashed through her eyes, and there was a second where Shanks feared the moment had been broken—that the near-interruption had been sobering enough, but then Luffy was gone and Makino was shaking with laughter instead, the whole of her fairly trembling with it.

And bared beneath him, her eyes clenched shut and with tears of mirth clinging to her lashes…it was quite easily the most captivating sight he’d ever seen.

“What?” she murmured, as she looked up at him, dark eyes tilted at the corners and meeting his gaze without so much as a shred of her usual reserve.

And he wondered then, what she saw — if she found more in the angles of his face than his scars, and what she thought about it. For once, her expression didn’t surrender her every feeling, and for a split second, a tendril of worry coiled, deep in his gut.

Then something strangely _possessive_ entered her eyes, etched itself deep in her lovely features, and it was such a sincere thing, it took Shanks a moment to think beyond the fact that no one had ever looked at him like that — like he was something to be treasured, simply for being.

He kissed her like he felt, little of restraint in the crush of his mouth against hers, and it was a relief to find her reciprocating, her hands buried in his hair as she pulled him down on top of her, like she couldn’t get him close enough.

Drawing back, Shanks considered her beneath him, her knees spread invitingly, and if the weight of his gaze embarrassed her, she was too focused on what was coming to notice.

“Just—oh, just do it,” Makino said, before he could open his mouth, the determined press of her brow an endearing sight, better suited someone gearing up or a fight than more intimate activities.

He looked at her, splayed beneath him on the floor. “You sure?” And he needed to ask, because it was one thing to regret a kiss that got a little out of hand, but this…

Gripping his shoulders, her assurance was a single, stark nod. “I’m sure.”

She must have found a sliver of doubt in his expression, because her next remark was a huff, followed by a smile tinged only with a pale remnant of nervousness. “ _Shanks_ ,” Makino said, her voice surprisingly steady, and the use of his name was enough to dispel the last vestige of apprehension that held him back.

He was careful, making sure she wasn’t crushed by his weight as he nudged her knees apart, and he was so hard it really was painful now, but with a controlled breath he guided himself towards her, the fingers not gripping his cock reaching to part her folds, and with a kiss he hoped would distract her—

The sudden intrusion made her squirm, the kiss breaking as she made a pained sound of surprise, and he realised belatedly that he probably should have done a better job preparing her for it, giving her a better work-up, so she wouldn’t be coiled quite so tight with anticipation.

He heard the hiss she pulled through her teeth, dissolving into an actual _yelp_ of discomfort as she took the tip of him inside her, her eyes squeezing shut.

His voice was a rough, rasping breath. He could barely think. "You okay?"

He saw the tears that slipped down her temples. And she was holding her breath, the muscles in her stomach taut with tension, but, " _Fine_ ,” Makino said, the word forced out, her jaw set against the pain.

“Makino,” Shanks said, pressing the syllables of her name to the juncture of her neck, an order that slipped out quite of its own volition, and he felt her shiver. “ _Breathe_.”

Her response was a shuddering exhale, and then her hands were gripping his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin, and when she nodded her head once he kissed her, dipping his hand into her hair as he pushed all the way into her.

It took him a moment to catch his breath, and for Makino to force hers out, but then he was moving with her, taking care to give her time to adjust as he slid out, before giving a slow thrust of his hips as he pushed back inside her. Her discomfort was evident, but she gripped his shoulders and bore it, her features marked with equal parts stubbornness as pain, and even though it was hard to think straight, enveloped fully in her tight warmth, he forced his mind to clear.

 _Change of tactics._ Pushing himself up, Shanks slipped a hand below her lower back to lift her hips, the change in angle allowing her more room to move, and he felt more than heard her startled breath, her chest heaving with it, and when she blinked her eyes at him her expression was bright with surprise.

“Better?” he breathed, although it took effort to speak, her heat everywhere and her eyes pulling him down, drowning him.

Makino didn’t answer, but as though following a silent cue, with her next breath she’d tilted her hips further, hooking her ankles behind his back, and seeming to chase some inner urgency, the determined set of her features a delightful vision—

The cry that tore from her this time wasn’t one of discomfort, and when her head dropped back against the floor Shanks found her legs cinching tight around his waist, and oh—damn it, this was going to be _quick._ But it had been too long, and it was all just a little too much, the reality of her so much more than his imagination could ever do her credit, and between the tight clench of her around him as he thrust inside her, again and again, the sound of his name hitching softly with her breath, Shanks thought it was a small miracle he lasted as long as he did.

He came with an oath, nose tucked under her ear, and he felt the skitter of her pulse beneath her skin, and heard how her breath caught as he bucked against her, the last shudder of his climax making him lose his grip, only to catch himself with his elbow against the floor above her head.

Makino still had her legs wrapped around his waist, and Shanks rested his brow to her breastbone, needing a moment to catch more than just his breath. And it had been years since sex had left him so utterly sapped for strength, like it had all been leached out of him, leaving him boneless and with barely a mind left to think.

“ _Fuck,”_ he laughed, utterly winded, and heard her response, soft and throaty.

The press of her palms over his back felt like an invitation, and when he gave in and allowed her to carry some of his weight there was a half-coherent thought somewhere at the back of his mind, that if she’d harboured any ideas that it’d take time she’d be sorely disappointed. And it was a delirious, almost disbelieving chuckle that fell against her skin now as he came to terms with how precious little it had taken for her to unravel him completely.

Shanks felt her smile then, pressed like a kiss to his shoulder, and if he hadn’t been so far gone he might have looked for his voice, to tell her that if she only knew the power she had over his poor mortal soul, there’d be no wiping that grin off her face.

Slipping his arm under her shoulders, palm splayed flat over her back, he flipped them, revelling in the startled laughter that ghosted along his skin, thick with pleasure and some profoundly self-satisfied joy that mirrored his own — the one that had settled into a permanent grin as she sank into his arms, half-sprawled atop him.

The floor greeted his back, cheerfully uncompromising, and he spared a sympathetic thought to what Makino’s must feel like, fingertips dragging up the length of her spine and finding her skin peppered with sweat.

A sigh fell from her when he pulled out, her features contorting in an expression that was startlingly distracting, her mouth parting and her eyes slipping shut, and when he tugged her close she followed, fitting herself against his bigger frame with a sigh.

And he could have fallen asleep like that, Shanks thought, holding her, disregarding the hard floor and the fact that anyone could walk in at any moment.

As it was, he was spared the option of doing just that, and their delirious bliss had lasted less than a full minute.

"Makino."

She'd gone suddenly tense, no longer the loose-limbed, laughing creature of a moment ago, and something clenched behind his ribs that felt distinctly like regret.

Shanks tried nudging her hands away from her face. "You're making me worry here. What's the matter?"

She was pointedly refusing to look at him now, and for a moment he feared the worst, but then—"It was awkward, wasn't it?" came her voice, coloured with what, to his immense relief, he recognised as embarrassment, not regret.

And it probably wasn’t the best response to offer an insecure lover, but he couldn’t help the laughter—the startled _guffaw_ so genuine he wasn’t given the chance to consider it, let alone stop it.

Makino peeked out from behind her hands, embarrassment replaced with betrayal, before it fled at the sight of the grin on his face, and before she could muster so much as a protest, "You know,” Shanks said. “I've heard some pretty misplaced remarks in my time, but that one takes the cake.”

She ducked her head, her cheeks scalding, and he really should be more sympathetic, but he couldn’t seem to let go of the smile.

"Makino." Hooking a finger under her chin, Shanks tilted her head up, his free arm tightening its grip around her waist, and, "Sorry," he said, cheerfully intent on matching her stubbornness with his own. His grin stayed firmly in place. "But we're having this conversation."

She clenched her eyes shut at that, exceedingly obstinate, but a kiss between her brows tempted them open again, and he saw the moment she yielded to the sight of his stupid grin.

"Is it supposed to be awkward?" she blurted then, and seemed to regret it a moment later, when she sighed, dropping her brow to his chest.

Shanks allowed his grin to soften, even as she couldn’t see it. "Maybe a little, the first time." He shrugged. "Or with a new partner. It gets better with practice."

He felt the way she stiffened at the mention of _new partner_ , and mentally berated himself for even saying it. _Shanks, you idiot._

"Hey," he said, searching out her gaze, and seeking to nudge the conversation onto a different track, away from old partners and things he'd rather not think about right now; things he had no need to think about, with her naked in his arms. "Was it good for you?"

She seemed to be trying her best not to look directly at him, although watching her now, Shanks had the sudden impression that what she was doing was, in fact, looking at him, the whole of him bared beneath her, and the suddenly faraway look on her face made his grin widen to shameless proportions. "Makino?"

She blinked, coming back to herself. "Huh?"

He didn't even bother tempering his amusement, and allowed her to hear it. "What's got you so distracted, hmm? Please say it’s me."

He saw her flush. "It's not—ah, you're not—"

"Not...?"

She huffed, but her smile was close at its heels. _"Helping."_

"No?” He grinned. “I can be very helpful, if you want me to be."

"Oh, I don't doubt it."

Shanks let his grin soften, along with the words. "You didn't answer my question."

Makino ducked her head, but didn't drop her gaze from his. "It was—a lot of things." At the look he gave her, she blurted, "Good things! Ah, mostly, I mean. It was—"

 _"Makino,_ " he laughed, wholly endeared by her scramble to explain herself, and her worry that she'd somehow offended. "It's okay. I just wanted to know that you were happy." He paused, considering her above him. "No regrets?"

She shook her head. Not even a second's hesitation. "No."

He wondered if she could tell from his expression how relieved he was to hear that, but, "Good," he said, the word too rough for self-assurance, but then he hadn't been attempting it.

He ran his fingers up her spine, then down again, following the curve of it, and felt the way she arched her back in response. And he realised he hadn't fully wrapped his head around it, the fact that he was touching her like this. Having imagined it so many times, it was almost too much to believe, the feel of her skin and the shape of her, and all the little intimacies; how she'd felt around him, and how she'd sounded.

"What about you?" Makino asked then, and Shanks felt her responding touch, feather-light across an old scar on his chest. "Was it—"

She stopped before she could finish asking, but he heard the question in its entirety, and felt suddenly like laughing, because of course she'd question _that,_ even with all the evidence laid at her feet like a mortal offering.

"You mean it wasn't painfully obvious?" he asked, tone a tinge dry.

He felt as she flushed this time, the kind warmth of her skin where it was pressed against his, and wondered for a moment what she was thinking about—if she thought of him coming, as her reaction suggested, and what she'd made of it; that complete loss of composure at her hands.

The look in her eyes now suggested gratification, and he wasn't going to lie and say he wasn't shamelessly pleased by the fact. Around them, the balmy air was cooling, the smell of sex clinging to her skin and his, but she seemed too caught up in her thoughts to notice.

"What do you see in me?" she asked then, her sigh the defeated sound of someone forfeiting a fight. "And—I know you've already told me, but I just—I guess I just don't feel very desirable. Or graceful." Her mouth pursed, the way it did when she was either trying to hold back a smile, or deep in thought. "Pretty much just awkward."

"You should try looking at it from my vantage point, clearly," Shanks said, gaze sweeping across her where she lay, all tempting softness and slender lines. "Because from where I'm—well, not standing at the moment, but 'awkward' is probably the last word I'd use." He grinned. "I have a whole list of descriptions if you want to hear them, though. 'Stunning' comes to mind, and often, I might add. I'm pretty sure I've thought it four times in the past minute just looking at you."

Makino shook her head, but he caught her smile, small and delighted. "Must be nice, from your vantage point."

"Pretty spectacular view, yeah." He touched his fingertips to her cheek. "And I do love a good view."

There was a moment where she seemed to consider him, completely at the mercy of her eyes, bottomless and dark, but, "I don't see what you do, then," Makino murmured.

"Obviously, if 'awkward' is your go-to word," Shanks said, but light as he kept his tone, there was a retort sitting at the back of his tongue; an old, unspoken insecurity he usually didn’t pay much attention, but there was something about being bared before someone else like this that had old thoughts resurfacing with a vengeance.

“But while we're on the subject of looks,” he said then, catching her gaze, “need I remind you that I have more scars than you'll have in fifty lifetimes?” Then, and with a smile that felt nowhere near as easy as what he’d been aiming for, “I don't know if you got a good look at the other ones, but I've got some that make my face look downright pretty.”

He knew she’d seen them—had felt her fingers trailing along the jagged path that cut across his back, before it snaked around his hip. A vicious memento of a fight he’d much rather forget, and that he could to some extent, except when small, questing fingers touched so hesitantly against the protruding skin, silently curious.

But then Makino flicked his nose, and the heavy thoughts lifted, leaving him blinking. "You're rugged," she declared, and as though having read his mind, Shanks felt the tender touch of her fingertips to the scars on his brow. "And the prettiest man I've ever met, scars and all."

She really was the most honest person he’d ever met, and when he pulled her close he wondered if she felt the way his fingers shook, curved around the back of her head. "You have no idea what you do to me, do you?"

He felt her chuckle, a soft thing tucked against his chest. "The feeling is very much mutual."

Smiling, Shanks just held her, soothed by the relief offered by her presence, calm where it had wrapped around him completely, like her body in his arms.

"I still feel like it could have gone better," Makino murmured then, and he laughed.

"Such a perfectionist.” Carding his fingers through her hair, his look was gently reverent. "Well, you won't find me hard to ask, if you want to go again."

"Practice makes perfect, is it?"

His grin so wide now it hurt, Shanks wondered what it looked like. "I don't think there exists a more fitting statement for sex." Then, "Okay, there might be a few others, depending on who you ask, but in this case the practice-bit is part of the fun."

He looked at her then, his expression yielding some of its good humour in favour of something more serious. "You can say what you want about it going better, but I have no complaints," he told her, honestly.

Then, his eyes gleaming, "And I've never done it on the floor of a bar before,” Shanks mused, a fleeting glance offered to the edge of the counter looming above their heads. "Of course, none of the bars I've been in have ever been this clean, but still." He tilted his head, gaze fixed on her face, and the dark eyes watching him. "And then there's the girl."

He heard her breath catching ever so slightly. "The girl, hmm?"

"Yeah. Devious thing, she is. Seducing me over breakfast of all things."

He felt as she stiffened, as terrible a liar in this as in anything, but, "I don't think the girl would agree to that assessment," Makino said. "She just dropped a glass. How events unfolded from there was entirely by accident."

"Accident, huh?" He pinched her waist, searching out the sensitive spots he’d learned to know by now, and found her laughter tumbling from her mouth in a choked shriek. "Don't think you can fool me that easily. I know plotting when I see it." He smiled a kiss to her temple. "Not that I mind you plotting. Like I said, I'm amenable to a lot of things. Just give me a moment's warning."

"Careful," she murmured, not missing a beat. "I might take that last one as a challenge to catch you off guard."

Pinching her again, he welcomed her laughter as it fell, and, " _Siren_ ,” Shanks condemned her, murmuring the word against her throat where he could feel her pulse leaping beneath her skin, her mirth sitting deep in her chest, and he felt her hands comb through his hair, tugging gently.

“So,” he said then, an idea springing to mind with the contented hum that pulled loose of her chest. “You didn’t finish.”

He watched her blinking, and saw that she hadn't caught on even before Makino asked, “What?”

Grin entirely wicked now, "You," he said, brushing a kiss to her jaw. The hand that cupped her hip drifted lower, seeking the soft curls just beneath her abdomen, and he heard her draw a startled breath through her nose as he murmured, "still have a little ways to go."

She swallowed, and she'd caught on now, Shanks felt, in the way she shifted atop him, as though seeking his hand almost without realising it.

He kept it where it was, thumb poised just above her sex, and he heard how her breathing changed. A note of nervousness had slipped between her earlier ease, and he caught it in the slight stutter of her voice when she said, "Ah—you don't have to—"

"And if I want to?"

He hoped his expression conveyed his sincerity, that she could tell just how much he wanted it, now that the thought had hold of him, imagining the way she'd look when she came, and the sounds she'd make when she let herself go.

He had an idea of how he might achieve it, or at least try to, and he tried to ease his eagerness into something that wouldn't spook her, but before he could even try, Makino nodded, and, "Okay," she said simply, the soft utterance falling into the quiet, but the significance was a staggering thing, leaving him short of breath.

But it was what he needed, and before she could say anything else, Shanks had shifted his arm around her, sliding his hand over her ass, squeezing it once before he gripped her thigh.

He felt as Makino stiffened with surprise, right before her words escaped, breathless and laughing, “Wait, what are you—”

She yelped when he pushed to his feet, taking her with him, hands slipping beneath her knees as she clung to him for dear life, panic erupting across her face, no doubt at the fact that if anyone were to walk in—

He was moving for the stairs before she’d had the chance to put her abject mortification into words, and when he glanced down at her it was to find her wearing all her questions on her face, mouth gaping and her eyes charmingly wide.

“I want a bit more privacy for this,” he said, shouldering his way through the door to her bedroom where it sat, invitingly ajar.

“I don’t know if I should be concerned,” Makino laughed, but she’d relented her death grip on his shoulders. “Are you—” but whatever she’d been about to ask was lost in a shriek as he dropped her unceremoniously on the bed.

Rolling onto her back and pushing up on her elbows, Shanks found her scowling, although she looked vastly more at ease here, amidst pillows and soft sheets, and with the assurance of privacy.

He wondered what it would take to make her come.

He wondered if she could read his thoughts in his dirty grin. It was likely, going by the wary suspicion he found, furrowed between her brows.

She was watching him now, her eyes having left his, travelling down his naked body, and a man could live decades on the memory of that kind of vivid appreciation, Shanks thought, finding his breath suddenly hard to catch.

Makino lifted her gaze back to his then, her suspicion easing into curiosity as she asked, “What did you have in mind?”

He grinned, feeling the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he sank onto it, but she didn’t squirm away as he moved closer. “I thought I might show you.”

“Oh?” she laughed, sounding delighted quite despite herself.

A kiss to the inside of her knee, nudging it out of the way, and when he spoke the words to her skin he felt her shiver. “Something a little less painful.”

He expected the protest before it came, because she was the type to offer assurances, nevermind the fact that she’d clearly been in pain. “Shanks—”

Another kiss, this time to the curve of her hipbone, and the words stilled on her tongue. She’d caught on to what he meant to do, and when he met her gaze it was to find in it a tumult of anticipation and familiar nervousness.

But also _want._ A staggeringly sincere sight, even now.

"You, ah, want to do— _that_ ," she stuttered, her cheeks colouring, and he saw how her eyes darted to his mouth. "With your—"

Shanks grinned, the wicked slant of his lips leaving no doubt as to what he intended to do to her, but just in case, he ducked his head to kiss her stomach, his beard scraping her soft skin as his lips lingered just beneath her bellybutton, before he let his tongue dart out, moving it in a slow circle as he flicked his eyes up to catch hers. He felt the shiver that raced through her, and the way the muscles in her stomach clenched. He could smell her arousal.

“Trust me?” he murmured, another kiss mouthed into her skin, a little lower this time. And it was a redundant question at this point, maybe, but Shanks saw as her expression softened.

He flattened his hand across her stomach, large where it spanned it whole, his fingers splayed over the little mound, her skin soft and unmarred under his callouses. And he let his gaze roam across the sight of her where she lay—the gentle rise of her tiny breasts, and the tendrils of dark hair just beneath his thumb, having inched lower, the scent of her desire a wonderfully inviting thing.

And then Makino nodded once. A silent acknowledgement, but it was enough.

"Tell me what feels good," Shanks said, the words murmured to the soft insides of her thighs as he got comfortable between them. He felt breathless with anticipation, being allowed to touch her like this—to taste her. "Let me hear it."

Curling his fingers under her knee, Makino didn’t protest when he pushed it back towards her, although he caught her sucking in a breath, nervousness still bright across her whole expression as he bent his head between her legs, holding her eyes as he did, his own hooded as he dipped his thumb and forefinger between her folds, parting her gently.

Then he ducked down to lick her, a single, careful stroke of his tongue to her clit, and the sound that left her did so _loudly_ , followed by the startled grip of her fingers in his hair. " _Ah_ —!"

"There you go," he chuckled, licking her again before the sound could leave her, wanting to keep it, teasing it out of her with each fleeting lap of his tongue; little, high-pitched gasps as she writhed, her sex plumping under his mouth.

Spreading his fingers, he parted her further, before sinking his tongue into her, hearing how she gasped at the gentle intrusion, and the little moan she made when he withdrew to tongue her clit again, encouraged by her sounds as she let him lick her, her nervousness leaving her, bit by bit with every keening pant of her breath as she turned pliant under his mouth.

Nudging her leg up, Shanks hooked it over his shoulder, and when he sank his tongue into her now it was with a rumbling laugh that dragged such an obscene moan from her, he almost didn’t recognise her voice.

He took his time learning to know her, his beard dripping with her arousal as he took her with his tongue, lightheaded with the taste of her but determined to know every reaction and their reason—to discover what it would take to undo her completely, and what it would take to keep her, poised on the edge.

Parting his lips in an open-mouthed kiss over her entrance, barely touching her, had her fingers tightening their grip on his hair, the gesture acutely impatient. And flicking the tip of his tongue over the bundle of nerves at the very top of her sex had her hips bucking, her voice catching on a whimper and a small hand splaying flat over the back of his head, pushing him closer, not a shred of hesitation or embarrassment to be found now in any of her reactions as he ate her out without stopping.

And they were desperately intimate details, every begging little noise and hitch of her breath, and the way the heel of her foot dug into his back. She was all heat and soft skin, sincerity given shape and gentle lines strung taut with a slowly building climax, her back arching off the mattress and her hips towards his mouth, her inhibitions surrendered completely to the sun-kissed air of her bedroom.

Shanks felt her teetering, her frustration telling by the way her fingers shook in his hair and the faint, helpless whine that escaped her, not impatient but imploring. " _Please_ —"

It broke off, as though she didn't know just what she was asking, and he felt her squirming, pushing herself closer. He'd paused what he was doing, and his grin stretched with delight as Makino continued to thrust against his mouth, again and again, until she was fucking herself on his tongue.

He let her do it, ridiculously aroused by the fact, and the sight of her, her eyes closed and her bottom lip caught between her teeth, moaning softly as she rode his tongue, although she barely seemed aware that she was doing it, nearly lost where she whimpered, silky and dripping around his tongue where it dipped inside her with each shaky thrust of her hips.

With her next thrust, Shanks pushed back, sliding his tongue into her as he did, and heard how her moan pitched with relief as her fingers fisted in his hair. And he didn't pause as he began to lick her again, quicker this time, tonguing her clit until she was crying out, begging him to go faster. Her breaths were coming in sharp pants, and she was close, although it was difficult focusing past how wet she was, and the sounds she was making; the urgent little whimpers that had him so hard, Shanks felt like he should be the one begging, for her to let him take her again.

But he wanted her coming—wanted to give her release, and to have her breaking because of him. He'd make the next time better for her, would learn to move with her, to fit himself inside her, but right now the only thing that mattered was that she felt good. She was the only thing that mattered.

"Come," he told her, speaking the word against her, and startling a sob from her throat. Shanks tightened his grip on her hip, nudging her legs further apart as he pushed two fingers inside her, slick where they sank into her warmth, and said, a note of command edging his voice as he ducked his head to lick her again, giving a harder thrust with his fingers as he fucked her,  _"Come,_ Makino."

She broke, and with a sound so lovely it was all he heard as she clenched around him, her little body arching as she climaxed, his fingers still inside her and his tongue working her clit as she shuddered into his mouth. And he wondered absently if there existed a more gratifying feeling than this, watching her come down, shaking as he kissed his laughter between her legs, to her hipbone and her breasts as he covered her body with his bigger frame. Little, claiming gestures pressed to her skin, and the delicate bones beneath.

There was a thought, slipping in as he drank in the sight of her now where she lay beneath him—her head thrown back against the pillows and her legs parted, the dark curls between her thighs glistening, drenched from her climax, from _him_ —that she'd never shown anyone this side of herself. But even if it was an entirely selfish pleasure, the one he found in that knowledge, he claimed it for himself, and without regret.

He was a pirate, after all.

 

—

 

She asked him to stay the night.

"If you want," Makino said, wringing her apron between her hands, her gaze lowered shyly. The others were retiring, headed back to the ship, but she'd caught his hand before he could move to follow.

"You could, um—stay _,"_ she added, a slight stutter in her voice, lowered for his ears alone. "With me."

He wasn't able to hide his surprise, and saw that she'd caught it by the way her expression changed, a hint of panic chasing across it as she scrambled to say, "But only if you'd like to—"

"I would," Shanks said, before she could finish, and laughed at the relief that shaped her smile, his chuckle soft and half-believing. He reached for her fingers, feeling as she loosened her grip on the apron. "I didn't want to presume."

Her smile warmed her eyes, like the soft blush in her cheeks. "Well," she said, and his brows lifted with delight, even before she murmured, "You've already been in my bed. I wouldn't blame you for presuming a little."

The persisting shyness was adorable, and his grin a gently wicked thing, but, "Not with you," Shanks told her, touching her hair where it had come loose of her kerchief. "But speaking of your bed—did you have something specific in mind, or would you just like to sleep?"

It was asked teasingly, but his look conveyed the assurance that it could be either. He wouldn't mind if all she wanted to do was sleep. It had been a long day, and beyond spending most of it serving his crew, the morning's events would have left anyone a little overwhelmed.

He watched as her blush deepened, the tops of her cheeks bright with her answer, and he kissed her before she could attempt to put it into words, his laughter rough in his throat as he slid his fingers into her hair, drawing her close.

"Round two, then," he murmured against her lips, grinning. "Or three, depending on how you'd categorise this morning."

Makino laughed, tilting her head as she responded to the kiss, still a little shyly. "Keeping count, are you?"

He nipped at her mouth. "For progress' sake," Shanks rumbled. "If perfection is what we're aiming for. Although I'd vehemently contest the notion that you're anything less than that."

He heard as her breath caught, startled by the sudden, honest remark, and when he kissed her this time he offered the rest of himself, his tongue slipping into her mouth to deepen it, and he felt how she sank into his arms, a hum of contentment rising from her chest as she curled her hands around the back of his neck.

Makino muffled a noise against his mouth, before she broke away to say, “The bar—”

“What, you want to do it _here_ again?” he laughed, and saw the way her nose scrunched up with her smile at his wilful misunderstanding, but before she could call him out on it he’d kissed her again.

He'd anticipated another protest at the dirty plates and glasses still in the sink, and the tables that needed wiping down, but it wasn’t what he got as he lifted her up, a startled laugh tumbling off her tongue as he carried her upstairs, her legs wrapped around his waist and her hands in his hair, her kisses shy but smiling and her lips soft over his.

There was a languid atmosphere to their intimacy this time, lacking the near-unbearable anticipation of their first, something that was approaching a tentative ease as he undressed her, slowly but cheekily, an earnest if exaggerated show of carefully slipping her stockings down her legs, the painstaking removal followed by lingering kisses along the inside of her thigh, and below her knee. But she accepted his teasing shows of adoration, and laughed at his antics — the dramatic shucking of his pants, and the sash he threw at her that she caught, only to wind it between her fingers.

"What?" Makino asked, expression softly bemused as she caught him staring, arrested by the image of her where she sat on the bed, naked but for the slip of fabric in her hands, the rest pooling in her lap and the bright red colour stark against her skin.

It was hard not to let it run away with him completely — the same fabric wrapped around her wrists or the slender curves of her ankles, the rest of her bared, her small limbs straining delicately against the bonds.

Shanks shook his head, smiling, and stored the thought away for another time. "Just savouring the image."

"Hm, yeah," she agreed, and he blinked, only to find her lowering her gaze, her laughter light and airy as she stole a glance at him where he stood, stark naked at the foot of her bed.

His smile widened, stupidly gratified, and when he pounced on her, the shriek of laughter that leaped from her mouth resonated in his whole chest.

Pushing her back against the mattress, the sash was quickly forgotten as her hands reached to touch him instead, still a little hesitantly as she skimmed them down his chest, pausing low on his abdomen, right above his cock.

She circled him shyly with her fingers, his cock large in her small hand, before she pumped them once, slowly, moving from his base up to his head, carefully experimental, although he made no secret of what he liked and allowed her to hear it, the groan it uprooted leaving no doubt, and in the echo of it Shanks found her touches growing surer, emboldened by his reactions as she stroked him almost to completion.

He stopped her before she could, and at her questioning look, kissed her deeply, and murmured what he wanted into her ear, which had her whole body flushing, and Shanks grinned into her skin, his chuckle soft and delighted.

And like he had earlier, he took his time asking her what felt good ("like this?" he mused, a deep chuckle following the way she jerked at the brush of his thumb across her clit, before she melted with a moan), and what positions she might like to try, the latter of which prompted an embarrassed splutter, and her eyes averting.

Shanks only grinned, nothing but delight found at her reactions, so terribly earnest. And he'd always loved sex, but there was something entirely novel about it with her. He'd never had a partner this endearingly shy, yet at once so paradoxically intrigued by the prospect of trying new things.

"Can I try something?" he asked, a trail of searching kisses marked along the soft mounds of her breasts where she lay beneath him, before pausing at her sternum. "The angle might be more comfortable for you."

Looking up at her, he found her blinking heavily. "Angle?" And there was that spark of intrigue again, the one that left him short of breath.

"Yeah," he purred, smiling as he nipped at her skin, before lifting his gaze to seek hers. "See, sex is like seafaring—"

She snorted softly, her smile brimming over. "I don't know if I want to hear where you're going with this."

He stuck his tongue out, before flicking it to her breast, stealing a moan from her laughter. "It's a good analogy. Or at least it was, but I forgot where I was going with it. Something about navigating and that each ship sits on the waves differently. It was really poetic, but you're making it hard to think straight—having you naked beneath me severely impairs my silver-tongued eloquence."

She hummed a laugh. He felt it in his whole body. "That's the reason, I'm sure," she said, touching her fingers tenderly to his cheek.

Shanks just looked at her, saying nothing, and saw as she swallowed, her gentle humour slipping at the stark honesty offered by his silence. She'd thought he was joking.

Meeting his eyes, Makino nodded then, her own near-black in the soft dark, but her anticipation wasn't shaped from nervousness this time.

He went slowly, his next question asked with his hands cupping her waist as he flipped her on her stomach, and he heard the startled intake of her breath as he slipped his fingers beneath her, lifting her hips.

Kissing her spine, Shanks felt her relaxing a bit, stretching her back as he grinned another kiss just at the top of her ass. And the sight of her on her hands and knees before him had his own breath rushing out, his attention momentarily distracted by the slope of her slender back where it tapered to her neck, and her hair, dark against her arms where she braced herself on the mattress.

It was easier this time. She was more relaxed, and he didn't hurry, testing her reactions as he touched her now, parting her folds to stroke a rough fingertip along her sex, his palm cupped over her heat as he fingered her, rubbing her clit, so gently he was barely touching her, until she was on the edge of breaking, her little sounds begging as she nearly sobbed against the sheets.

Shanks pushed one finger inside her, a deep, languid thrust before withdrawing to add another, and this time her mewl choked off as she clenched around him, unfathomably lovely where she kneeled, her petite shape tensed, her muscles trembling as she pushed back against his hand shakily, meeting his thrusts as he pumped his fingers at an increasing pace, until he was nearly pounding into her, her pleading sounds driving him, and it took effort to pull out, hearing the questioning sob that chased his touch.

He'd made sure she was good and ready this time. Gripping his cock with one hand, he entered her from behind, pushing inside her slowly, and the sound she made invoked relief rather than pain, a sighing little moan as she curled her spine, welcoming him deeper.

He began to move with her, sliding himself in and out at an unhurried pace, feeling how she clenched around him as she adjusted to his size. And he meant to keep the pace when the soft pant of her breath carried a sudden plea (" _harder_ ", and it was a miracle he managed to hold on to anything of himself, hearing it), the trembling grip of her hands in the sheets urging him further, and he forgot about _slow_ as he took her roughly, the sound of skin smacking together and the slick plunging of his length into her filling his ears with her moans, and his fingers leaving white imprints where he grasped her hips, raised to meet him.

The shudder of her climax preceded his own, reached with her cheek pressed to the mattress as Makino cried out, convulsing around him. And combined with the sound of her, the sweet lilt of her voice raised in rapture, the sight of her before him—on her knees, her back bowed as though in surrender, his cock inside her as she came—undid him completely, his body bent over hers and his hips jerking sharply as he spilled into her.

They stayed like that for a slow heartbeat, his weight half atop her, his brow pressed to her spine, just breathing.

A laugh, then—soft and muffled against the mattress, before it grew, until she was fairly shaking with it. Shanks felt it through her body, into his; heard the warm, lethargic sound of it, and could do nothing but grin and kiss the freckles on her shoulders, the back of her neck, sloppy and breathless and his own laughter rough, half-believing.

Her earlier embarrassment seemed forgotten as she sank against the sheets with a sigh, stretching her back delicately, and when he pulled out and drew her into his arms this time there was no trace of awkwardness left, or even the suggestion of it, her body curled like a small, sated cat where he wrapped himself around her, already on her way to sleep as he pressed a drowsy kiss to the crown of her head.

"Comfortable?"

All he got was a sound, a barely-there hum as she tucked her nose into his throat, and her next breath was heavy, like her weight in his arms. Shanks hid his smile against her hair, and tugged the covers across them both.

And it was a small wonder, the easy trust he’d thought he’d felt most keenly in the way she’d responded to his touches, but he found a different truth now in observing her; her head cushioned on his arm as she succumbed to sleep without reserve.

He couldn't seem to make himself follow right away, gripped by the sudden need to remember how she looked. They would be leaving soon, an inevitability that they were neither of them unfamiliar with, but for all that she'd been the most hesitant at the prospect of initiating something, Shanks wondered if she realised just how laughably wrong she'd been when she'd suggested that she might be just a one-time fling for him.

"Not you," he murmured, touching the delicate shell of her ear, but she didn't stir at the quiet confession, fully and soundly asleep.

He should be doing the same. He was tired, the combination of a long day and a change in pace that still hadn't fully sunk in, even after everything—even with the memory of touching her, and the small hands that had sought to know him in turn, eager in a way he'd never felt to this extent from anyone else. And he’d had plenty of eager partners, but her way of showing it was different. That soft adoration, so terribly sincere, and the way she looked at him…

 _She_ was different.

His exhaustion was a good ache, the kind born of wanting, and the almost delirious relief of that want finally being sated, even though watching her now, it felt like it would never be enough. As though as whole lifetime wouldn't cut it, in learning her, and having her.

They would be leaving soon, and so Shanks watched her sleep — learned to know the sound of her breathing, and how she fit into his frame. How she looked, curled up in his arms. It was a harder world than this, the one that existed beyond her little port, and the quiet privacy of her bedroom, but he rooted his certainty in the fact that, however hard that world, there were softer truths to be found, like the steady beating of that gentle, caring heart, ushering him off to sleep even as he fought to keep his eyes open. As though she’d been made to fit, Makino slept, entirely comfortable with his presence in her bed and in her life.

And he’d have to remember that. Whatever awaited him, one year from now or ten, he’d have to remember that there was somewhere to come back to, however far gone he might one day find himself.

 

—

 

He must have fallen asleep at some point, because when he opened his eyes it was to find the room doused in buttery sunlight, and Makino looking at him.

It took a disoriented second of blinking into the light to gather himself enough to realise exactly where he was—soft sheets, and the bare skin against his own softer still—and then his grin was stretching, shameless and delighted across his face.

“Hey,” Shanks said, and found his voice so rough he had to clear his throat, although the soft hitch of her breath didn’t suggest displeasure at the sound of it.

“What?” he murmured, when she just continued watching him, her eyes unnervingly big, and leaving no room to hide. “You’d think I was completely starkers, the way you’re looking at me. _Oh_ —wait a minute.” He grinned, and watched as her own mirrored it, even as he said, “Seriously, though. I hope those are good thoughts you’re having, and that it’s not the crippling disappointment of seeing me first thing in the morning and realising that my gorgeous face doesn’t come about by itself.”

It was said jokingly, or at least in part, and when she just kept watching him, Shanks felt his hands twitching, another remark ready to follow the first, and damn it, he always ran at the mouth when he was nervous, but—

“You snore,” Makino said, and the simple remark held so much delight it stole his breath.

Shanks laughed, the sound sitting deep in his chest. He didn’t know why he was surprised. “Not too loud, I hope? Ben says he hears it through the walls sometimes. In my defence, I don’t know what he’d expected. It’s not like I’m usually so quiet.”

Her eyes gleamed. “I don’t mind,” she said, shrugging one shoulder, and his gaze was caught by the sloping curve of it, her bare skin moon-pale, even against the white sheets. Reaching out, Shanks traced a fingertip along her collarbones, the line like a perfect horizon, before following the curvature of her shoulder down the length of her arm.

“You sure?” he asked, voice dropping an octave, and the words too gentle for humour now. “I do have my own bunk, if it gets to be too much.”

And it was teasingly said, but he knew she'd caught the underlying sincerity — that he wouldn’t hold it against her if she decided she would rather he didn’t share every intimate aspect of her life. Sex was one thing, but this softer kind of intimacy, with all its implications…

A small hand touched his chest, brushing over the hairs there, and he watched as her gaze tracked the movement, as though mesmerised by the contrast; his skin darkened from years under the sun, and rougher than the little white hand where she splayed her fingers over his heart.

But he thought of how she'd looked at him, the afternoon before, on the floor of her bar with all his scars on display. Shanks found the same quiet reverence in her expression now, observing him.

Then, lifting her eyes to his, “I like having you here,” Makino said.

And even if his face didn’t reveal all his emotions the way hers did, Shanks didn’t doubt that she saw exactly what that remark did to him.

“Those are dangerous words,” he murmured, and knew he couldn’t blame the rough quality that had crept into his voice on the early hour this time.

She hummed, the sound a small, pleased thing. “Maybe I could do with living a bit more dangerously.”

He laughed at that. “Careful, now—you’re starting to sound like a pirate.”

Makino said nothing, but her smile made her eyes curve at the corners, and the affection sitting in them made it hard to catch his breath.

A lull passed where all they did was look at each other. The mattress of her bed was soft, and the sight of her against the sheets, partly covered but not making a conscious effort to hide herself, made him unduly pleased to see. She’d been nervous in her nakedness yesterday, but there was a shy sort of ease about it now. It wasn’t bold, or even close to being that, but the tentative comfort she displayed spoke volumes compared to how she'd been.

“What time is it?” he asked then, glancing towards the window. The sun was up, although the fact that Makino was still in bed with him suggested it was early. She hadn’t opened the bar yet.

The thought prompted another. And the guys would have noticed that he hadn’t spent the night on the ship, and he could already imagine the kind of response that awaited him when he returned — far too clever smiles, and coins changing hands again, but subtly if Makino was present. And they’d curb their cat-calls and questions if that was the case, but Shanks knew once they got him alone there’d be no end to it.

Strangely—or maybe not so strangely, knowing him, and his crew—the thought only made him smile. Mutinous cheek aside, he’d never once doubted that they were happy for him, and he knew for a fact that he wasn’t the only one who’d grown attached to this place, and to the barmaid who greeted them back every time like they belonged; like there was a place for them here, wanted men be damned.

Watching her now, Shanks wondered if she realised that they considered her one of their own — that most of the books he’d collected over the past few months had been contributions, and that they’d been dropping entirely unsubtle hints for weeks about whether or not he was going to ask her to come with them one of these days.

The sudden urge to do it now was almost enough to make him forget everything else, but taking in the quiet trust she showed, in her naked body beside his, the shared intimacy of her space, he curbed it, knowing that springing this on her now would be too much, too soon.

Still, Shanks felt the words where they sat, heavy on his tongue. _Come with me._

He wondered what she’d say.

“This is early for you,” Makino said then, smiling. “At least without the incentive of breakfast. I’m surprised you’re keeping your eyes open.”

He might have said a lot of things to that suggestion—that it wasn’t an effort keeping his eyes open with her naked in front of him, or that as far as _incentive_ went, breakfast had nothing on her. Or he could have just said he’d happily have her for breakfast. Shanks didn’t think she’d spook at the suggestion now. Blush, maybe. No—definitely.

It was sorely tempting.

She was tracing a scar on his chest, shyly curious, like she still wasn't sure how to go about touching him, and a memory slipped in from the day before, that same hand buried in his hair, her inhibitions gone and nothing at all hesitant about her touch.

“What?” she asked then, no doubt at the sight of the grin that had taken over his face.

Shanks sketched his fingertips along her jaw, the rough pad of his thumb brushing the curve of her cheek, before tucking her hair behind her ear. Free of her kerchief, sleep—and him—had left it an endearing mess.

His hand lingered a bit in the small intimacy, playing with a lock of her hair, and it was a feat just reminding himself that he could touch her, and the things she'd let him do to her.

“Just thinking about yesterday,” he said, brows quirking with mischief. “You’re bossier than I thought you would be.” He remembered the insistent press of her palm to the back of his head, and her voice, muffled against the sheets but breaking with the order. _Harder_. “Not that I’m complaining!" he was quick to add, at her mortified look. "I’m just surprised.”

Her cheeks had flushed prettily, and he grinned, delighted at being able to prompt that kind of reaction in someone, and so often.

Then, curiosity and something else chasing away some of her embarrassment, “Did you think about it a lot?" Makino asked. "Before—” She stopped herself, and kept her gaze resolutely fixed on his chest now. "Before," she finished simply.

His smile softened a bit, but he wasn’t going to be ashamed. Not of this. And he had no plans of downplaying just what kind of hold she had on him. She should know — deserved to know that she was all he’d been able to think about for the past four months, but also that it was more than just sex, although he had a feeling she knew, the way she looked at him sometimes.

“Yeah,” he said. Then, ducking his gaze to catch hers, his grin anything but ambiguous, “And you?”

The brilliant blush that darkened her cheeks was answer enough, and his laughter made his chest feel light, as Makino spluttered, “Don’t laugh!”

He caught her hand before she could pull it back towards her, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, grin wide and laughing, despite her playful indignation. And he wanted to ask — craved it, suddenly, to know just what she’d imagined; if the thought of him had ever kept her awake, and prompted her hands to wander, seeking.

But maybe that question was a bit too bold, so soon, although on the heels of that thought followed another. That she might tell him one day, when their intimacy wasn't so new, and her embarrassment not as bright.

Opting for something a little less specific, although the thought was curiously insistent, like the image of her touching herself, small fingers buried in her own heat and his name breaking on her tongue, “Was it everything you'd imagined it would be?” Shanks asked, brow lifted, only partly teasing. Because he remembered her discomfort, and the stubborn press of her features as she'd endured it.

But he remembered her pleasure, too. The sound of it, and the taste of her.

Her blush hadn’t relented, but her expression had yielded some of its embarrassment. “Not as many velvet waistcoats as I’ve been led to believe,” Makino said, the corner of her mouth quirking as she raised her eyes back to his. “Or dramatically flowing curtains.”

The laugh that pulled free of him bounced off the quiet, and he tightened his grip on her hand, so tiny in his, and finding that fierce swell of affection within him that he'd long known the name of, although it was a truth he'd yet to offer her in words.

“A bit embellished, those books of yours,” he mused, as he felt her fingers curling around his, gripping them back. When he caught her gaze now, she didn’t drop hers. “Still a good experience?”

It was her turn to tug his hand towards her, and Shanks knew his surprise must show on his face, because it was a pleased smile that she tucked with a kiss to his knuckles, rougher than hers and covered with scars, but the touch of her lips achingly gentle.

His breath was elusive, and he wondered if he'd ever get used to the way she touched him, and kissed him, so tenderly it wanted to stop his heart.

“Better than I’d imagined,” Makino said, with that guileless honesty that had no equal. “You’re—erm,” she laughed, a little breathless. “You’re good.”

His grin could only be described as shit-eating now, Shanks was sure. “Good, huh?”

She covered her head with the pillow, and when she spoke her words were muffled, “You know what I mean.”

“Mm, not sure I do.”

She huffed, lifting the pillow to look at him, but when she raised her eyes to his they were smiling, despite the furious blush in her cheeks. Shanks watched where it climbed down her throat, across her collar towards her breasts. “You’re very good at that— _thing_. That you do. With your—” She didn't finish, just muffled an embarrassed sound into the pillow.

“So very specific,” he mused.

She shoved the pillow in his face, her expression endearingly flustered. “I’m not going to say it!"

He laughed, tossing the pillow off the bed, and when he reached for her she shrieked, but her laughter followed his soon after, light and lovely as he pulled her close, fingers chasing across every available stretch of skin and finding her responding with a shiver.

“When do you need to be downstairs?” he asked, the words spoken against her mouth, soft and yielding under his.

He heard how her breathing changed — felt it in the little gasp that followed the trail of kisses he left down the length of her throat, and, “Not just yet,” Makino breathed, hands pressed to his ribs, sketching a tentative path up his chest. She was half-sprawled on top of him, the warm weight of her wonderfully distracting. “We, ah—we have time, if you—”

She yelped when he rolled them over, but then she was laughing again, and he felt it where she lay, trapped between him and the mattress now. And she’d laughed more in a single morning than he’d heard in any of the days since that first, quietly combative meeting on that sunny-warm afternoon all those months ago.

For some reason, that thought left him even more pleased than the sound of her breath hitching now, and feeling how she sank against the mattress beneath him, her body small and pliant under his bigger, heavier frame.

“So that ‘thing’ that I do,” Shanks said, murmuring the words into the soft hollow of her neck, where her pulse throbbed. “Want me to do it again?”

He felt her shudder, and her nod; a small, still-shy thing, and his smile widened as he added, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that?”

Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. “Yes.”

“Yes…?”

Another shuddering breath—this time it sounded distinctly like an impatient _huff._ “Please do it.”

“Do what?”

“ _Shanks_.”

She didn’t often call him by his name, and his reaction was almost visceral, hearing it now, coated with enough undiluted _need_ that for a moment his whole teasing composure slipped.

It took a second to gather himself, but pulling back, he looked down at her. And there were no words that could accurately describe how beautiful she looked, her bare skin flushed and that same need he’d heard in her voice sitting bright in those big, brown eyes that couldn’t seem to decide if they wanted to hold his or look anywhere else.

Bending his head down, he pressed a kiss to her collarbone, then lower, to one of those tiny, perfect breasts, his beard grazing her skin as he sucked lightly on a firm nipple. He heard the moan that slipped past her lips, prompting his grin to stretch wider.

“Is this what you mean?” he asked, mouthing the words against her skin as he worked his way lower, down her ribcage and across her stomach. He felt her shifting, tilting her hips and opening her legs to him, the action wordless but the wish clear.

He found her answer in the sound that left her as he licked her, quickly and greedily, slipping into the morning to settle along with the pale strips of sunlight touching the edge of her bed, her knuckles white-capped where her hands gripped the sheets. And for all her endearing shyness, she didn’t hold back, her spine arching with that languid grace he wondered if she was even aware of, and every movement inviting him to follow.

And he didn’t think he’d ever get tired of the feel of her, or her responses when he touched her, his hands large where they wrapped around her small waist, before he fit himself between her legs, the clench of her knees pushing him closer as she curled her body around his, until there was no space left between his smile and her slick heat, and the morning was filled to the brim with the sound of her.

 

—

 

She slept for four hours after that, utterly spent and dozing in his arms, until the sun had climbed past its noontime mark, filling her bedroom and rousing her with a start, the reaction so abrupt she nearly tripped on her way out of bed as she scrambled to get ready.

His laughter followed her into the bathroom, along with his assurances that no one would begrudge her the indulgence of sleeping in for once.

She threw back through the sliver of the half-open door, beyond which he spied her slender shape as she searched for something to wear, that it wasn’t that she’d slept in, but the implication that she was worried about.

Shanks just tucked his grin into her pillow, stretching himself out across the bed, sheets kicked off completely, and pretended he didn’t notice where her eyes drifted when she emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed and trying to cajole her bed-hair into one of her kerchiefs.

He heard the huff she made, softened with laughter as she paused by the foot of the bed. "It's past noon," Makino said. "Are you going to stay like that all day?"

He opened one eye to look at her, and saw how her gaze jumped up, followed by her cheeks flushing at being caught staring. The laugh that eased from him was warm and lazy. "Would it be such a bad thing? Imagine having a naked pirate waiting in your bed. Would be something to look forward to once you get off work. Unless the thought of me like this is too distracting? I wouldn't want to hinder your business."

The small quip to that long-ago exchange wasn't missed, and he saw how her eyes tilted with her smile, as Makino hummed, "Something to look forward to? You're confident."

"Staggeringly,” he laughed, as he pushed himself up on his elbows. She had her eyes fixed resolutely on his face now and not his naked body, although from the look of her, it was taking a delightful amount of effort.

He was no longer surprised by how ridiculously gratifying that felt—her unique expression of appreciation, as pure as the heart that offered it.

"Although it's not without reason, in this case," Shanks added, and at her delicately raised brow, let his grin slant, wide and filthy. "I've been told I'm _good._ You were very generous with your feedback, too. Can't blame a guy for feeling a little confident, given the sounds you make. That breathy little whimper in particular."

He saw as her blush darkened, and laughed, charmed by the sight as Makino stuttered, clearly flustered, " _You_ —"

"Me?"

She pushed a breath past her lips. She was trying very hard not to smile, Shanks saw. "Have you always been this shameless?"

His grin widened further, but then he wasn't making an effort to hold back. "Yes," he chirped, "but you should know that you're inspiring a whole new level of shamelessness."

"I don't know if that's a good thing," Makino murmured, still with that barely-contained smile.

"No?" he asked, tilting his head as he observed her. She'd finished getting ready, a sunny yellow dress with a neckline scooping delicately below her collarbones, the sleeves capped over her shoulders, baring her arms. A new apron cinched her waist; the imprint of his hands seemed marked in his memory, hidden under the fabric, against the softer skin beneath.

Lifting his eyes back to hers, it was to find her watching him, still with that half-shy satisfaction at being the source of his attention, her pleasure dampened only by the lingering bewilderment in her eyes, as though she still couldn't understand it.

Shanks resisted the urge to shake his head. If she knew even half the thoughts that passed through his head whenever she stepped into his periphery, there'd be no confusion.

Or it might have the opposite effect, he mused, watching as she smoothed her hands over the apron, plucking at an embroidered flower, and remembering how they'd fisted in the sheets. If she knew what he was thinking about her, she might just as easily be mortified as pleased.

Still. There was something wonderful about that — to be able to make someone so flustered with nothing but honest desire.

She reached for his hand then. "Come on," Makino said, as she tried to pull him off the bed, stubbornly unperturbed by the fact that he was a good deal heavier than her, and didn't budge even as she put her whole weight behind it. "Since you're the reason I'm late, the least you could do is help me open the bar."

Shanks curled his fingers around her wrist, pulling her down, her laughter catching on her breath as she fell against him. "Yeah?" he murmured a kiss into her neck, feeling how she shivered. "Are we talking full-blown barkeep here? Dish-towel over the shoulder, apron, the whole shebang?" Another kiss followed, sucking the tender skin at the juncture of her throat, and her breath was a soft shudder as she braced her hands on his shoulders. Smiling, he rumbled, "You like that image, huh? You know I'd make it work."

Her laugh was that lovely, near-breathless thing, sounding a tinge exasperated. "If only I could get you _to_ work," she countered, and his laughter swallowed up her own, delighted at her quiet cheek; at how comfortable she was in offering it now, when she’d once been so hesitant.

"Depends on what you mean by 'work'," he said. His hands circled her waist, bunching in the fabric of her dress as it rode up her hips. She was halfway into his lap, and he was cheerfully hard again; a fact that didn't escape her as she sank into his arms, his cock pressing into her thigh.

A hum sat on her tongue, before it darted into his mouth, deepening the kiss and stealing his breath, but before he could push the skirt of her dress up to reach between her thighs, she'd drawn back, and, "You can start by wiping down the tables," Makino said pertly, and with a quick peck to his lips, before she extracted herself, chased by his laughter and his reaching hands as she made to hunt down his discarded clothes.

" _Fiend_ ," Shanks huffed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know how you expect me to get any work done _now_."

She threw a glance over her shoulder as she pulled his shirt off the floor. "Then it'll be two of us suffering," she said, the attempt at a teasing remark stuttering just a bit as she offered it, but then it wouldn't have been _her_ otherwise, and Shanks just grinned, ever-delighted by the fact.

It ended up taking fifteen minutes just getting him into his pants, most of which were spent teasing her hair back out of its confines and stealing laughing kisses from her mouth. And when she finally opened the bar, late in the afternoon with the sun dipping back down towards the horizon, it was with her chin raised and an air of dignity that brooked no argument, but that was ruined entirely by the furious blush climbing up her throat.

No one breathed a word, choosing instead to hide knowing smiles behind the rims of their glasses, but by the mortified looks she kept shooting him, Shanks had a feeling he was the most obvious of the lot.

As though in agreement, “I don’t know which one of you is being the least subtle,” Ben said, sliding an amused glance towards Makino, breezing past their table with a tray of glasses.

Shanks grinned, catching her eye, and found her dropping her gaze, lips pressing together with that poorly contained smile that couldn’t have screamed her feelings any louder if she’d opened her mouth to do it. “In my defence, I don’t have a subtle bone in my body. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”

“There’s a joke here,” Yasopp mused. “But I feel like it’s too obvious.”

“That he’s like a dog with a bone?” Ben asked dryly.

Yasopp snorted, and with a look at Shanks, “Not the kind of bone I was thinking about.”

“Comedians, both of you,” Shanks said, but couldn’t make the words sound appropriately reproachful, gaze catching Makino’s again as she passed by their table. She didn’t try to hide her smile now, and for the span of a heartbeat, despite the rowdy laughter rising towards the ceiling, there was a moment of peace — a single second that invoked that quiet morning he’d awoken to, and that seemed suddenly like the only thing he'd ever wanted in life.

“Did we lose him?” Yasopp asked after a lull, wherein Shanks had watched Makino navigate the room, and the crew gathered around her tables.

Ben sighed, but it held a laugh now, Shanks heard.

“A long time ago.”

 


	3. a promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shanks being smitten out of his ugly sandals with his tiny barmaid is the hallmark of my writing for them.

The memory of that first morning with her followed him for weeks.

The bedding of his bunk was cold and rougher than expected, and it took him a second to find his way back to himself, and to realise where he was. And it wasn’t the first morning Shanks found himself waking, only to reach for a shape that wasn’t there.

Hand falling flat against the empty sheets, disappointment was first to greet him, familiar and boyishly petulant. Then followed a sobering realisation, and one he'd been skirting for some time; the fact that he had no choice but to get used to it.

He rolled onto his back, blinking into the grey light that softened the shadows of his cabin. Dawn or earlier still, but there was no small body extracting itself from his arms now, impossibly soft and greeting his protests with an incorrigible early bird's gentle determination. Mornings with her had made even ungodly hours bearable, watching her dress through half-lidded eyes and stealing drowsy kisses as she helped him into his clothes, her touches tenderly efficient as she coaxed him out of bed.

He missed those mornings, up with the sun and the girl who felt like nothing less, who showed only fond patience at his grousing, and who kissed his cheek and tucked a cup of coffee into his hands as her first order of business.

God help him. None of the guys would ever believe it.

Or they might, Shanks thought wryly, thinking of the fleet-footed girl who'd somehow managed to learn how every single person in his crew preferred their eggs. And they were none of them early risers, barring maybe Ben, but come morning, like clockwork her bar would be filled less than an hour after opening.

Thinking about it left a hollow ache in his chest, like hunger but not quite. It would be some time yet before they circled back to East Blue, and he wondered idly if he’d promised to return more for Makino’s sake or his own. He’d have to leave her one day, that much he’d always known, but it wasn't just about leaving a pretty girl in a nameless port this time. Not with her.

Shanks wondered if it ever had been — if it could ever have been that _easy_ , or if he'd been doomed from the moment he'd decided to go back to Fuschia a second time.

It wouldn't be easy, but it had to be done. He had a part to play in a bigger story than this, even if the thought of setting sail for the Grand Line and leaving her behind made him long for a much simpler existence.

He'd even asked her to come with him. It was probably a screaming testament to how ridiculously, ass over teakettle besotted he was, but he couldn't bring himself to be even a little bit ashamed. Not for wanting her, or for wanting a future with her in it, in whatever way she'd have him.

 _Ask me again_ , Makino had said. And he knew it was a long shot — knew that ten years was a _long_ time, and that even if he made it back to ask her, there was no guarantee she'd still feel the same.

But then, he always had been an incurable optimist.

Dragging a hand across his face, Shanks pushed himself off the mattress, still blinking sleep from his eyes as he rooted around for his clothes, and pulling on his shirt, found his hands stilling on the buttons, imagining a smaller pair in their place, quick and efficient, and her tongue clucking fondly—

_You never button this up. It’s a small wonder you’ve even bothered with a shirt with the amount of chest you’re flaunting. Might as well just leave it off and be properly indecent._

Smiling, he spared a passing thought to the future, ten years down the line. He wondered if she’d button his shirt and flick his nose, and tell him that men in their forties ought to dress the part.

He thought she might.

He let that thought sit in his mind as he rose to another day — to the endless stretch of sea that had once been enough, but that it took effort now to look at and see the water for what it was, and not wonder what she was doing across the many miles.

 

—

 

It figured that the next time he saw her, he’d do something drastic. He’d been told more than once throughout his life that he was a magnet for trouble, especially the cheerful sort, and Shanks thought he’d been doing a good job so far, keeping their visits from disturbing the peace. Well— _too much_. But he should have known something like this was bound to happen.

Of course, it wasn’t reckless bravado that dictated his actions; an excessively macho need to show off, hoping she’d be impressed. His ego was many things, considerable being one of them, but Shanks had never let himself be led by it.

His heart, on the other hand, big, foolish thing that it was, was a whole other matter.

And goddamn, but he had a heart for that cheeky little kid.

He’d sensed something was wrong before they’d even draw into port, and Makino wasn’t there to greet them, as he’d hoped she would, at least given the nature of their parting. And Shanks thought at first that she might just be busy, or perhaps that she wasn’t comfortable with the prospect of an affectionate display in broad daylight, with his crew and the whole village watching.

But as they made to drop anchor and even Luffy failed to show up, the familiar clenching in his gut assured him it wasn’t just baseless worry that had him so on edge.

“Boss,” Ben said simply, eyes on the village and his brow furrowed above his eyes.

“Yeah,” Shanks said, warily. “I feel it.”

They came upon the bandits in the street—along with Luffy, Makino, and the grumpy little mayor, who’d made his opinion on Shanks clear months ago. An altercation of sorts had taken place, going by the hostility in the air, and the fact that the leader of the group had Luffy shoved into the dirt, trapped under his boot as his henchmen jeered, delighted by the reckless bullying of a six-year-old.

But not all of them were watching Luffy, and Shanks caught their intent from some ways off, long before he even saw the leers directed at Makino, and felt a sudden rush of relief that they’d come back today. However well-meaning the other villagers were, he remembered vividly their reaction the day they’d first docked, when they’d all but abandoned her to his crew.

The thought of what might have happened if they hadn’t come back knotted with a sudden dread in his gut, watching her where she stood between the bandits, her small shoulders tensed, like she was considering interfering, before it was followed by a surge of anger unlike anything he’d felt in years, leaving him winded, and he knew it must have transferred, by the way some of the bandits _flinched_ , abruptly alerted to his arrival.

Makino had sensed him coming, Shanks knew already before he saw her start, but, "I was wondering why there was no one to welcome us at the docks,” he mused, stepping up behind her, willing his voice to sound mellow and laughing as he reached up to grip her shoulder reassuringly, and hoped she couldn’t feel how it shook.

He felt her surprise before he saw it on her face, along with her relief as she turned to look at him. “Captain!”

Shanks flashed her a grin, and before she could catch the tension edging it, had moved to step around her, until he’d put himself in front of her, effectively shielding her from view.

He felt as she relaxed a bit, calm waters settling, her distress soothed to a single ripple as he made to address the bandits, and with a calm he’d been told was insufferable on more than one occasion. But he had a mind to resolve this without excessive use of violence, if he could. There was enough of that in the world already; rare corners of peace like Fuschia should be allowed to stay that way.

And—selfishly, there was no other way around it—he didn’t want Makino to have to witness that side of him, if he could avoid it. It wasn’t that he’d made a secret of the fact that he was a pirate, with all that truth entailed, but it was one thing having to endure his tall tales, and another for her to observe the fact that they weren’t all as exaggerated as she probably believed.

It was something he still had trouble admitting to himself; the fact that he was worried about how she’d react if she got to know that part of him. The one who’d cut down an enemy in a heartbeat, if it meant ensuring her safety.

But watching as the bandits’ gazes slid back towards her, their hands twitching and their eyes holding a hungry promise, and Luffy, still trapped under their leader’s boot, Shanks knew he wouldn’t hold back, if pushed.

For the sake of the two of them, he’d bare all his secrets. Even if it irrevocably changed how she looked at him.

 

—

 

All things considered, it could have gone worse.

Well. Maybe not _worse_.

 

—

 

He couldn’t remember how he’d made it back to shore. He must have swum, although the feat seemed beyond him suddenly, the docks looming high above his head, the little weight tucked under his arm seeming too heavy for a six-year-old. And he couldn’t have mustered the strength to lift himself up if he’d tried—couldn't have managed, given that he now only had one arm at his disposal, and that already full.

There were hands reaching for him then, gripping his shoulders, hoisting him up and onto the docks. He was distantly aware of Luffy wailing, the pain making it difficult to think, let alone breathe. But he did—somehow, he managed to drag air into his lungs as someone rolled him onto his back with more force than strictly necessary.

There was a tumult of voices around him, rising louder and louder, like multiple headaches pressing against his skull, and hands on his shoulders. Doc’s, going by the rough, no-nonsense handling.

“Idiot,” Ben’s voice snapped, somewhere above him, and Shanks thought the word had never sounded less fond.

“So mean,” Shanks drawled, head lolling as he tried to pin his gaze on something that wasn’t _tilting_ alarmingly. “Why are you always so _mean_ , you grouchy old fox?”

“Because someone has to offset your insufferable personality,” Ben retorted, the words too quick, too sharp for his usually enduring mirth, but before he could point it out—to suggest, laughingly, that he sounded _worried_ —Shanks was brutally brought back to the blinding pain lancing through his left shoulder, like someone had burrowed a white-hot knife in his arm, just above his bicep.

He couldn’t remember ever being in so much pain, not in his whole life. Not even after Teach had—

He set his jaw against the groan rising up his throat, biting the sound in half. He thought he was about to pass out.

The sky stretched above his head, a perfect, cloudless blue. Perfect. Pretty. Periwinkle. Pretty and periwinkle. Makino had an apron that colour.

"Why is the sky an apron?" Shanks slurred, blinking up at it.

An oath sounded to his left. Or maybe it was to his right. Man, the sky was _really_ blue. "We're losing him."

Shanks blinked. His eyelids felt too heavy to hold up. _Weird_. "Did she sew it? I should ask her."

The sky looked almost accusingly blue now. He had a mind to tell it to stop, but couldn't seem to move his tongue to shape the words. He had trouble thinking with all the people shouting around him.

"Boss. _Boss_."

Did he smell blood? He thought he smelled blood, the briny sea air pungent with the scent, clinging to his nose, too close for comfort. It smelled like a butcher's shop, like the one his mother had used to take him to every Thursday when he'd been a boy, the memory suddenly everywhere, her calloused hand in his and her red lion’s mane catching the breeze as she _laughed_ —

 _Oh, right,_ Shanks thought, strangely detached, and then said, “It’s my blood.”

He remembered, then—Luffy. The sea king. His _arm._

"Shit," he spat, but when he tried to sit up, found multiple hands on his chest, pushing him back down.

"You've lost a lot of it," snapped a voice then. _Doc_ , Shanks thought. Of course. He'd lost an arm. That would bleed quite a bit. But Doc would know what to do. Doctors knew how to handle amputations.

Holy shit, he'd just had his arm _amputated._

“You won’t let her see me like this,” Shanks blurted, the first thought that sprang to mind, but found his words too slurred to convey the gravity he’d aimed for. His tongue felt too thick for his mouth. “My image won’t handle it.”

Doc’s face was filling his vision now, frown-lines burrowed deep and the muscles in his jaw clenching. It wasn't as pretty as the apron-sky, Shanks thought.

“Captain, kindly shut your trap before you lose more than just your arm.”

He realised belatedly that he must have spoken his thoughts out loud, and wanted to apologise — wanted to say a lot of things, but it was getting harder and harder to think, and he felt out of reach of what was happening around him, as though someone had dunked his head underwater. He was uncomfortably aware of the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears, and somewhere, someone was still wailing.

 _Luffy._ He hoped the kid was alright. He hadn’t had time to check for injuries before his own had caught up with him. Someone ought to check on him, to make sure. Makino would have wanted it.

His thoughts latched onto her name, fumbling it with stiff fingers. He remembered suddenly the worry on her face when he’d left her in the village earlier. She was probably still worried. He should get someone to tell her he'd be fine.

"Worried," Shanks said, and blinked heavily. It didn't feel like it conveyed everything he’d meant to say. He tried again. "Mm fine." _Fuck._

He was aware that his thoughts were becoming less and less coherent, but he couldn't seem to keep his focus long enough to point it out to the people around him. He could hear them talking, loudly, but couldn't make out what they were saying. Someone was shaking him, too. It hurt like hell, and was that really necessary?

 _Congratulations_ , came a voice then, cutting through the white noise in his head. Shanks thought it sounded like Rayleigh. Or was it Captain Roger? Maybe a combination of them both.

 _Rogleigh_ , Shanks thought, and found this particularly hilarious.

The voice in his head didn't seem as amused. Had to be Rayleigh, then. _This might just be the most reckless thing you’ve ever done._

Suddenly petulant, Shanks thought he’d much rather hear her voice—tried in vain to remember how it sounded as his vision began to blur at the edges. It felt like he was sinking through the docks, and he scrambled for the sound now, a slippery lifeline that eluded his grip, but he just wanted to _hear_ it; the way she’d gasp it into his neck, or how it sounded, laughed softly around a smile and pressed to his mouth. Damn it, he _wanted—_

 

—

 

He dreamed of waves crashing against the hull of his ship, and the deck pitching beneath him; dreamed of reaching to grab for purchase, but only one hand would yield to his command.

There was water in his lungs, rushing past his ears, the sound churning in his head, through his whole body, but beyond it another beckoned, gentle tones like the lapping surf, and words he couldn’t make out. It pulled on his limbs, anchor-heavy, a soothing murmur that made him think of calm horizons, and fair winds rustling the canvas. He felt a presence, quietly compelling, like dipping his fingers into still water, rippling it.

He allowed the dark to take him with minimal resistance, dragged towards the bottom, but he was reaching even as he sank, fingers grasping at nothing where he imagined the curve of a pale cheek, and eyes like the ocean depths, but so much kinder.

 

—

 

He resurfaced to the dark of his cabin.

At first he couldn't understand how he'd gotten there. Had he been drinking? In which case, what the _hell_ had he been drinking?

"Don't move," came the order, reaching him through the blurry haze, like someone had wrapped him in gauze. It took Shanks a second to recognise the voice. _Doc._

His vision clearing a bit, he could make out the ceiling above his bunk. There was a single lamp lit, and the shadows dancing along the bulkheads told him it was the middle of the night.

Night. _Shit._

"Makino?" he asked, before he could think.

A huff, somewhere to his right. Shanks thought it might have been a laugh. "She stepped out for a bit," Doc said, entering his periphery. He looked tired, hewn features drawn and shadowed. "Probably needed some air. I don't blame her. The surgery took longer than expected."

 _Surgery_. He tried not to prod too much at that word. "Where?" he asked instead. God, he certainly sounded like he'd been drinking.

There was movement beyond his field of vision, but he couldn't lift his head off the pillow to see where Doc was going. He heard the sound of the door opening, and muffled voices, followed by receding footsteps.

His head was throbbing, and he felt the pain now, manifesting through his confusion.

"Doc," Shanks said, as the door closed again, but didn't rightly know what he was asking this time.

But Doc was used to difficult questions, even those that were too difficult to put into words. Perhaps especially those. "The surgery went well," he said, matter of fact. "It should heal without problem. With amputations, even clean ones, infection is always a possibility, but I'll be keeping an eye on it."

Shanks breathed. He tried not to look to his left. "Thanks."

There was a long pause. Then, "She was fretting earlier, while you were out cold," Doc said, as he eased his weight into the chair pulled up beside his bunk. Shanks saw his tattoos where he’d rolled his sleeves up, the ink like shadows in the lamplight. "Makino."

His head had cleared enough to hear what Doc was really saying. "Observation haki," Shanks murmured, a smile tilting his mouth, although it felt like a grimace. "Figured it out a while ago." He sighed, a new realisation finding him now. "Damn. No wonder she ran off. Stuff like this is always hard on observation users. It's worse when you're untrained, and you don't know what it means."

She would have felt it when he fell unconscious. Or rather, she would have felt his _absence_. Those with empathic natures often felt things more strongly than most observation users, and so Shanks wasn't surprised she'd found it unnerving enough to leave the ship.

Doc hummed. "You haven't told her she has it?"

He didn't shake his head, uncomfortably aware of his whole body, and the pain caused by even the smallest movement. "Not yet."

"Are you going to?"

He considered the question, like he'd considered it several times over the past few months. He'd considered telling her about it, explaining what it was, what it meant, but didn't know what good it would do her, knowing. She had no one to train her. Shanks could have, but training someone in observation took time, and if there was one thing they didn't have, it was that. And he doubted giving Garp a call would go over well, and even if he'd dared, there was no guarantee the old marine would even want to do it.

He wished they had more _time_.

The door opening again dragged his thoughts back from where they'd wandered. And he felt her before he saw her, the quiet waters of her presence rippling with distress, even as his own heart settled, watching Makino stepping into his cabin, a small, dark thing where she emerged into the glow of the lamplight, her eyes unnaturally large in her face, seeming to devour the shadows.

And if Doc looked tired, she looked _harrowed_ , something almost like grief clinging to her cheeks, between her brows and at the corners of her mouth where it trembled.

Shanks saw as she looked around his quarters. She'd only been inside once before, and under vastly different circumstances, her laughter pressed into the mattress of his bunk with her bare skin.

He felt a pang of regret for ruining that memory for her now.

"There you are," Doc said, before his regret was given time to take root, rising from his seat to greet her. "Was beginning to think you'd finally gotten some sense and left his sorry arse behind."

Shanks smiled, recognising the wry fondness behind the remark, and its intention. And he felt as Makino relaxed, that almost-grief eased by familiar teasing. He made a mental note to thank Doc later.

"Oye, Doc," Shanks said instead, and saw as she reacted to his voice, and with a relief so bright it lit her whole face, chasing off the shadows. He wondered if his grin looked as stupid as it felt.

"What did I tell you about bad-mouthing me in front of my girl?"

 

—

 

She read to him, because he asked her. Not for the story; Shanks already knew how that ended (a rogue whirlpool; the deus ex machina of the ages turning the tide of the battle, a victory secured, and the lost hero returning home).

No, it was for her voice that he asked. And listening to it as it ushered him off, like the tide pulling him back into the surf, he could forget that he didn't know how their own story would end, although he hoped it had all those elements. A game-changer, like a rogue whirlpool. A great battle won against all odds.

And the hero finally returning home.

 

—

 

The next time he stirred it was by degrees, disoriented from pain-induced and drug-laced dreams, only to find Makino tucked against his side, sound asleep, and a forgotten book wedged painfully into his thigh.

It took him a moment to put the pieces together. Her presence, the book, and the _pain_ , startlingly sincere now that it wasn’t dulled by whatever Doc had given him.

And last but not least, the tied-up shirtsleeve where his left arm had once been.

It was a feat dragging himself fully into consciousness, and he felt heavy-limbed and lethargic, like he wanted nothing more than to just go back to sleep, but the pain wasn’t about to let him, seeming cheerfully present now that he’d become aware of it.

Blinking his eyes clear of sleep, Shanks considered Makino where she’d curled herself against his right side, her cheek resting on his chest and her head cushioned by his arm— _his only arm_ , the thought resurfaced once more, and with no more kindness than it had the first time.

Shanks ignored it, focusing instead on Makino where she slept. Her hair was loose, no kerchief in sight, and someone had wrapped her in one of his cloaks, the dark fabric tucked around her petite frame, the high collar tenderly brushing her cheek.

He heard the laboured sound of her breaths, speaking of exhaustion, and frowned, wondering suddenly how long she’d sat awake at his bedside. Had she gone back to the bar at all?

The thought had something constricting behind his ribcage, and he would have reached to pull her closer if it hadn’t been for the quick and painful reminder of what moving too much would do. And then there was the fact that he probably couldn’t have moved even if he’d tried.

The corner of the book he’d given her was still digging into his thigh, but with Makino asleep on his arm, he couldn’t reach to remove it, and there was something terribly inappropriate about the helpless laugh that threatened at the bottom of his throat, coming to terms with it.

It left him in a wheeze before he could pull it back, and Shanks felt as she came awake, a soft, questioning sound leaving her as she shifted against his arm, her eyes blinking blearily into the light.

He saw the confusion in them as she lifted her head off his chest, looking around her, as though she couldn’t understand where she was, before they came back to settle on him.

Then it dawned on her, and a second later she was sitting up on the bunk as if someone had tossed a bucket of water at her head, his cloak slipping off her shoulders.

Smiling at her reaction, “Morning,” Shanks said, opting for levity, although the tired rumble of his voice ruined the effect somewhat.

Her eyes were wide, but looking at him, awake and watching her back, Shanks saw as they softened, the events of the day before coming to settle in them as a sigh shook loose of her.

Pressing a cool hand to his brow, the small relief tempting his eyes to slip shut, he heard the worry bared by her voice as she asked, “How are you feeling?

Despite himself, he felt a tired smile grace his lips. “Honestly? Not as bad as I could be.”

Makino shook her head, but she looked relieved, for all that she sounded like she was on the verge of tears. “Is there no end to your optimism?”

He grinned at that. “Afraid not. According to Ben it’s a bottomless pit, and one of the many banes of his existence. It’s weird—they all involve _me_ somehow.”

He was happy to see that spark a smile. “I think it’s a good thing he has someone to keep him busy,” Makino said, brushing her thumb across his cheekbone. “He’d be so very bored otherwise.”

“He really would,” Shanks mused. Then, meeting her eyes, “And you?” he asked, and found that the question sounded far more serious than he’d intended, but didn’t hold back. “Where would you be without me to keep you on your toes?”

Her expression changed, delicate features drawing together, and he saw in them the _feeling_ that sat, bright in every line. And she said nothing, but he could hear it all the same, all the things she’d thought and felt, faced with the very real prospect of losing him.

It was gratifying, the way only love can be when offered by someone like her. And how did you even go about returning affections like that, if you had nothing to offer but your own heart? No other prospects beyond a promise to come back, if the sea allowed it.

“Shanks,” Makino said then, pulling his wandering thoughts back, and when he met her eyes now, the sight that greeted him dispelled every concern he might have offered the thought that she regretted her choice—and him. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

He knew his expression was giving away as much as her own usually did, before he even heard the rough quality of his voice. “Yeah?”

She smiled, running her fingers through his hair, and he silently commended her for not grimacing. Between the saltwater, the raging fever and the amount of blood he’d lost, it couldn’t be a pretty sight, let alone begging to be touched.

He wondered if she’d help him wash it, if he asked. The thought was an oddly heartening thing.

Of course, on its heels followed another; the realisation that it was just one of many things that were going be difficult getting used to.

It wasn’t regret he felt. He’d have made the same sacrifice again without flinching, but there was a whole world of things he hadn’t even considered yet, and the sea he was headed for was a cruel enough mistress to pirates who had all their limbs attached. There was still the matter of his swordsmanship (why did it have to be his _left_ arm?), and other, painfully mundane things. A life he’d never once considered facing with only one hand at his disposal.

“Those look like awfully grim thoughts,” Makino said then, and Shanks inclined his head to meet her eyes, dragging his thoughts back from where they’d ventured, years and seas away.

He considered the strange feeling that sparked, watching her, phantom fingers itching to curve around the back of her neck, pulling her closer, but when he moved to do it there was no response, only the ever-present pain, and beyond it, a dull ache that seemed to sit somewhere he couldn’t reach.

Shanks felt as she reached out to give his hair a playful tug. “You know,” Makino said, smiling. “I could help you wash up.”

He didn’t care if the boyish hope on his face was three different kinds of ridiculous. “Would you wash my hair?”

Still with that soft smile, “If you want,” Makino said, before it quirked a bit higher. “I have a feeling you’ll need a hand.”

Oh, she thought she was clever, did she? And because he couldn’t help himself—“Just with the hair?” Shanks quipped, and he knew just what his grin looked like now, and had it confirmed a moment later when Makino slapped his good shoulder.

“Listen to you!” she laughed. “Weren’t you at death’s door only yesterday?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault death wouldn’t have me. They’re missing out on stellar company, by the way.”

“Oh, I bet.”

“You’re thinking about it, though,” he said, wagging his brows. “Admit it—the idea’s in your head now of just what you’d like to give me a helping hand with.”

The look she shot him suggested that she was in fact considering it, and, “Ha!" Shanks laughed, unduly pleased. "Who’s the scoundrel now?”

She huffed. “I won’t give you a hand with anything if all you’re going to do is tease.”

“You know that when you say it like that, you’re putting ideas in _my_ head, right?”

She met his gaze, one brow arched. “And which head would that be, exactly?”

The uproarious laugh that ripped from his chest must have woken the rest of the ship, but it was enough to make him forget the pain, and the arm, and that there was anything beyond his quarters; beyond her quiet humour, and the unfathomable depth of affection in her eyes.

Wrapping his arm around her back, Shanks pulled her close, until she was pressed flush against him, a yelp slipping from her lips, to tumble against his shirt. And tucking his nose to her hair, he let his laughter fall against her ear, soft and winded now, a gentler sound than he’d ever been known for, but then that was her influence, like so many other things she’d imparted.

He could live without the arm. He’d learn, and adapt, and he’d face the seas a stronger man for it. It was a small sacrifice, like he’d told Luffy. He could live without it.

Certain other things, though…

It was becoming harder and harder to convince himself.

 

—

 

It took time, adjusting to his amputation.

Shanks knew he’d never been a good patient—in part because he was terrible at being _patient._ And recovering from injuries, especially traumatic ones, demanded nothing less than that.

He hated being bedridden, for all that he was usually the last to get up in the morning, but at least that was by choice. Being confined to a bed for any other reason than sleep—or sex, in which case, he had no trouble being _confined_ , and in every sense of the word—just made him restless and irritable, prone to petulance and snappish moods, and with a shorter fuse than usual.

It wasn’t a particularly charming aspect of his personality, and he hated the fact that she had to discover it this way.

“Shanks,” Makino said, as he made to rise from the bunk. Her voice held that tender note of worry he’d become intimately familiar with over the past few days, although it struck jarringly along her syllables now, bordering on distress. “You’ve already been up once today.”

“Once,” he agreed, as he eased himself towards the edge of the mattress, careful to keep his movements controlled, like his breathing. He ignored the sweat that made his shirt stick to his back, and pretended his voice didn’t sound so strained. “This makes twice.”

It hurt just moving, every breath like a dagger in his shoulder, but he set his jaw against the pain as he pushed shakily to his feet.

Makino’s hands clenched, and she looked like she wanted to reach out, but kept them at her sides as he straightened to his full height.

Shanks pushed out a breath, smiling around it. “See?” he laughed. “Easy peasy.” He swayed a bit, gripped by a sudden dizzy spell, and her reaction was instantaneous as she reached to steady him, her hands catching his elbow, even as he doubted she’d be able to hold him up if he really did topple.

He blinked against the dizziness, and the dark spots dancing around the edges of his vision. “Okay, so not exactly _peasy_ ,” he amended around a breath. “But I’m good. I just need to pace myself.”

He made to walk towards the door when she held him back, her hand clamping down on his forearm in a bruising grip. “Stop,” Makino said, her fingers digging into his skin when he made to move again. “Shanks—”

“ _Makino_ ,” he cut her off, hoping his grin softened the edge in his voice, even as he saw how she flinched back at the sound.

With a breath, he tried a different approach. “I just want to go out on deck for a bit. This cabin is killing me.” He looked at her, one brow raised. “Don’t tell me you’re not thinking it, too—it smells like someone died in here. Or like I haven’t gotten out of bed in four days. Honestly, I don’t know which is worse at this point.”

She gaped, still gripping his arm. “Because you’re supposed to be _in_ bed! That’s the whole point of bed rest!”

He tried to shrug her off, but her hands just clenched down harder, and he heard her voice now, the distress in it chiming brightly, “Doc said—”

“Doc is exaggerating, believe me.”

“He’s your _doctor_ ,” Makino stressed, stubbornly uncowed. “He knows what he’s doing.”

Shanks sighed, and tried again to pull his arm out of her grip, and when she still wouldn’t let him go, “I don’t need to be mothered,” he snapped.

Hurt flashed across her face, the reaction bright in her eyes, and his regret was immediate and merciless, but his restlessness was greater, making him forget—making him selfish and obstinate, as he made to walk towards the door again, ignoring how dizzy he still felt. “I’ll just be a minute—”

“Shanks!”

The sharp lash of her voice made him turn around, surprised, although from the look on her face, Makino seemed even more startled by the outburst.

There was a beat of profound silence between them, the imprint of her voice seeming to linger on the air, like a discordant note.

Shanks watched as her lower lip trembled, before she tucked it between her teeth. “Please,” she said, quietly.

His irritation left him, along with his restlessness, like it had all rushed out of him in the same breath, leaving him feeling curiously drained.

He turned back towards her fully, reaching for her hand where it had fallen to her side when he’d pulled out of her grip.

Bringing it to his lips, he kissed her knuckles. “Sorry,” he said. “You don’t deserve this. And I don’t deserve your kindness, acting this way.”

Dwarfed by his own, he felt as her fingers clenched, before they slackened, and slipping them free, she made to drag them across her eyes, but Shanks caught the tears in them before she wiped them away.

“Stop trying to rush your recovery,” Makino said then, looking up at him, her expression imploring but her voice firm. “Please.”

She looked tired, he thought, observing the shadows under her eyes, but then she’d been spending her days assisting Doc, and keeping Shanks company as he slowly lost his mind from the enforced bed rest. He couldn’t even remember when she’d last taken a break to see to her own business.

The guilt that seized him was worse than the pain in his shoulder, and he felt suddenly sapped for strength.

He sat down on the bunk heavily, the breath he expelled too harsh to be a sigh. “I hate this.”

Her eyes softened, and Shanks watched as she stepped towards him, her fingers reaching for his cheek, curving around it to tilt his head up to look at her, their faces level now that he was sitting down.

He felt her softly calloused palm where she smoothed it over his cheek, catching on his beard. Her smile was quietly intimate, like her voice. “You haven’t shaved.”

The sound that left him tried to be a laugh, but sounded too tired. “I haven’t dared. I’m afraid I’ll just give myself another set of scars.” He met her eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting in a deprecating smile. “You might not mind, but I’ve already got more than enough.”

Makino said nothing to that, but curled her fingers under his jaw as she tipped his head back a bit. Shanks felt the pad of her thumb rubbing against his beard, thicker than he usually kept it. “I could do it for you,” she said then.

He blinked, looking up at her. For some reason, he felt a little short of breath. “Yeah?”

Her smile curved, as though knowing why. “If you trust me to do it. I’ve never shaved anyone before.”

He laughed, a genuine sound this time as he reached up to grip her fingers where they cupped his cheek. He wondered if she felt how they shook, or knew why his voice quavered when he told her, roughly, “I’ll take the risk.”

Makino just smiled, and at her questioning look—“Middle drawer of my desk,” Shanks said, and watched as she turned to root through it, before coming back with the razor.

A simple silver handle, no embellishments beyond a single engraved line, curving across the metal like the arch of a cresting wave, it was worth more in sentimentality than in coin, but it had served him well in all the years he’d had it, ever since the morning Rayleigh had pressed it into his hand and told him, dryly, that he would only suffer one terrible moustache on the ship, and that was their captain’s.

Shanks remembered protesting, too young and too proud to see reason, nevermind the fact that the peachy fuzz on his upper lip could barely have be called a moustache. _But it’s still coming in, Rayleigh-san!_

Rayleigh hadn’t budged. _Either you do it yourself, or Buggy will hold you down and I will do it for you._

Suffice it to say, he’d learned to shave, and when he’d made to give the razor back, had been told to keep it.

He looked at it now where Makino held it, tucked between her slender fingers; observed her as she got ready, testing the temperature of the water in the washbowl before collecting the soap, no other sounds between them than the tender noises of her preparations, and the gulls circling the harbour beyond the open porthole.

It brought a smile to his lips, watching her, as endearingly concentrated as she was with any task, however small.

She turned to him then, the razor unfolded and her fingers curled around the silver handle. “Ready?”

Shanks said nothing, just lifted his chin, and watched her as she got to work, a little hesitant at first, the initial drag of the razor across his cheek so light it probably didn’t do anything, before she adjusted her grip on his chin and did it again, this time with a bit more certainty.

She made a little noise, a pleased-sounding hum that had his smile widening, his earlier mood forgotten as he watched her, so wholly absorbed in what she was doing, his staring didn’t even faze her.

She had the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth, and seemed to hold her breath as she moved the blade across his skin, her fingers holding his chin in place, tilting it now and then to get a better angle, her breaths soft where she let them go between strokes, and under the spell of her gentle movements, Shanks thought he could have closed his eyes and gone to sleep.

 _Trust_ wasn’t even a question, he mused, a little wryly, as Makino sketched the blade of the razor across the skin of his throat.

“Sure you haven’t done this before?” he asked, smiling when she started, her concentration broken. “You’re a natural.”

Huffing, “Don’t talk!” she chided, fretting as he chuckled. “I might accidentally cut you.” Then, as though before she could think it through, “I’m beginning to wonder if that wasn’t how you got these,” she said, touching a fingertip to one of the scars over his eye.

It was teasingly said, but Shanks felt his smile tightening. It wasn’t the first time she’d demonstrated her curiosity where his scars were concerned, but she’d never asked about them outright, or who’d given them to him.

He’d thought about telling her more than once, but it wasn’t a good story, and like so many other things concerning that part of his life, he was worried about what she’d think—of him, more than anything.

Having caught on to the fact that they’d stumbled into that unspoken gap between their worlds, the one they’d been toeing around since they’d met, both of them aware it existed, but she’d never prodded too closely, and so he’d never shared more than he’d thought she might want to hear, Makino turned her attention back to her task.

Shanks felt the blade of the razor, and the small hand gripping his chin; saw the dark, guileless eyes that kept no secrets from him.

He’d tell her one day. When he came back, if she’d still have him, he’d tell her everything.

Another careful sweep of the razor. Shanks followed the slight furrow between her brows where it dipped, his smile lifting a bit at the sight, despite the nature of his thoughts.

Makino tipped his chin, her eyes shifting to meet his. “What?” she murmured, her cheeks warming under his gaze, but she didn’t look away.

Shanks just smiled. “You’re very cute when you concentrate.”

Her smile flashed, adorably startled. “You’re not making it easy,” she laughed, but didn’t pause what she was doing as she mumbled, “Looking at me like that.”

Shanks said nothing, just continued to watch her. She was standing between his knees, so close he could feel her breaths where they ghosted across his cheeks. The slow slide of the razor scraped his skin, followed by a dab of the washcloth, dipped in the bowl. His shirt was soaked at the shoulders, like the sleeves of her blouse, but Makino didn’t seem to mind.

She was close enough to kiss, and any other time he might have stolen one, unable to help himself, but somehow, all he wanted to do now was watch her.

Reaching around her, he rested his hand across her lower back, his fingers splayed, bunching in the fabric of her skirt as he pulled her closer, and caught her smile as she reached to dip the razor in the washbowl, rinsing it, before resuming her work.

He felt as her thumb brushed across his lower lip, the fleeting touch like a kiss as she tipped his head to the side, a sigh leaving her, seeming softly contented.

Shanks didn’t let his hand drop, feeling her little movements, and the tiny shape of her; the gentle warmth of her body and the hum that sat on her tongue, that he felt through her chest.

His eyes slipped shut, and when his breath eased out of him, his shoulders sinking with it, there was nothing left of his impatience, or his agitation, listening to her heartbeat, and the _clink_ of the razor against the porcelain bowl before she touched it back to his jaw.

He felt like he could have stayed there forever, under that tranquil spell, her small body aligned with his, so close he could feel her everywhere.

He wasn’t sure if he really had drifted off, but he heard as she put the razor down, and, “Done,” Makino said then. When he opened his eyes, Shanks found her observing her handiwork. Her eyes were hooded, creasing with her smile as she patted his shaved cheek. “You’re no longer a dirty vagrant.”

Caught off guard by the comment, his grin brightened, stretched wide under her fingers where she’d pressed them to his cheek. “That’s entirely up for debate.”

“Hmm, well you no longer _look_ like one.”

His chuckle ghosted her skin, as he leaned into her touch. “I love your unique form of flattery. I’m never prepared for it.”

He saw as her gaze warmed, hearing what the words implied. And he’d told her he loved her already. He hadn’t planned on doing it, but then it had slipped out, and he hadn’t wanted to take it back. When he took his leave of her, let her be sure of that, if nothing else.

“Thank you,” Shanks said now, turning his head to kiss her fingers. “For bearing with me.”

He meant more than just the beard, but knew she heard it from the way her smile tilted, before Makino ducked her head to press a kiss to his newly shaved cheek. Then a second followed, to his nose, prompting another chuckle, before she reached to cup his cheeks, taking his head in her hands as she sought his eyes.

Her lips were soft, and the press of them against his so tender it stole his breath, the kiss seeming to reach all the way into him as she tipped his head back, parting her mouth over his lower lip with a breath, and so gently he didn’t dare respond, although in that moment Shanks didn’t know if he could have, his whole body seized by the touch of her lips, and the small hands cradling his cheeks, no less at her mercy than when she’d held the razor to his throat.

She drew back slowly, the breath leaving her seeming to prolong the kiss, too soft to be broken. Their lips nearly touching, she brushed her fingers over his cheek once, before lifting her head to press a kiss to his brow.

“I’ll go toss this out,” Makino said, picking up the washbowl as she made to extract herself from his arm. “I’ll be right back.”

He let his hand drop from her back with difficulty, feeling her absence as she drew away and out of the frame of his body, the planks creaking under her feet and her skirt wrapping around her legs as she turned away from him, the little hum that sat on her breath a remnant from before.

Shanks watched her leave, the curious domesticity she’d ushered into his cabin remaining even after the door had closed behind her, an echo of the ache behind his ribs, thinking that he wouldn’t have minded a life like this, with her small, tender affections.

Running his hand across his face, feeling the smooth skin and the grooves of his scars burrowing into his cheek, the sigh he shoved past his teeth held a bitter, ugly laugh.

_Damn it._

 

—

 

“One week.”

It was testament to how well his first mate knew his moods that Ben didn’t even look up from his newspaper at his declaration, only flipped the page with staggering calm. “That’s optimistic, even for you.”

“Ben, I mean it.”

That made his eyes lift, along with a single, decidedly unimpressed brow. “You’re not well enough to be going anywhere. And Garp isn’t due back from Headquarters until next month.”

Shanks knew that, and Ben was well aware that Shanks knew that. But there was something else, something that he hadn’t shared yet with his best friend—that he’d yet to share with Makino—and that it took every ounce of strength he possessed to put into words now.

“I can’t, Ben,” he said, and knew he didn’t have to say more, but did, anyway, and maybe more for his own sake than Ben's. “If I stay any longer, I don’t know if I can make myself set sail when the time comes.”

A different man might have said _then why don’t you just stay?_ But Ben knew it wasn’t that easy — knew that there were things left for them to do that didn’t allow for settling down just yet. Shanks had always hinged his faith on his gut, that inner compass that had never steered him wrong, and he knew he had a role to play yet.

Just like he knew that if he continued to wake beside her every morning, there was a very real chance he would choose his heart over his gut.

A sigh then, and, “One week,” Ben said, an understanding that accepted, even if it didn’t agree.

And Shanks was thankful then, for Ben being who he was. For not being a different kind of friend, who’d look at him and tell him to be selfish, but who understood, perhaps better than anyone, that Shanks had already been selfish enough.

 

—

 

The night before he took his leave of her, they drank, and talked, about everything under the sun and more, as though it would somehow make it easier—that if they exhausted every subject, they’d somehow be content; as though there was such a thing as getting _enough_ of each other.

There wasn’t, Shanks was sure about that, and had only grown more certain in that knowledge every time Makino inclined her head, dark eyes smiling, and hanging on to his every word as he talked until he was out of breath.

“Okay, okay, but how about this—on my very first voyage, I spent most of the first day bent over the railing, retching my guts out. No, I’m serious! You should have seen me. I was all swagger and bravado for the first ten minutes, but then we hit some rough weather and I threw up my lunch, and my breakfast. And dinner from the night before, and I’m pretty sure most of the whiskey I’d pilfered from the captain’s quarters. Joke’s on me, though—Captain laughed so hard he nearly passed out.”

Her smile was brilliant, and her laughter not far behind. And it wasn’t much of a hardship, telling her of his less-than-glamorous exploits as a fledgling pirate. They were small truths, comfortable truths that were easy to share, and that would do nothing to spoil the soft, languid mood that had settled over his cabin.

They were seated on the floor, their backs to his bunk and their knees touching. Her hair was loose, tousled from the occasional brush of her fingers, and the colour in her cheeks seemed to have taken up permanent residence. Shanks spied her missing kerchief, half-hidden under his bunk, stolen from her hair earlier and forgotten next to her boots where she’d toed them off, an effortless grace to her slightly rumpled state that would have been hard to believe, a short year ago.

There was a bottle between them, a vintage so old and so valuable she’d likely have choked if he’d told her. He’d lifted it off a cargo ship back when he’d first started putting his crew together, and had been saving it — for what, he hadn’t known, but couldn’t think of a better reason than this, watching Makino tip her head back to down the contents of her glass, cheeks flushed and her smile laughing, seeming in defiance of what awaited them with the sun.

“Alas,” Shanks sighed, lifting his own tumbler, “the life of a swabbie isn't much to brag about.” Tossing it back, he offered a fond thought to simpler days. Or maybe they hadn’t been simple at all, but he’d been too young to bother much with the future back then.

Now the future was all he could think about, his thoughts circling back to the same thing whenever he looked at her, wondering if she was in it—if, when all was said and done, she was _it_.

“What about your captain?” Makino asked then, tilting her head against his bunk. “Was he a famous pirate?”

It took effort to remember what she’d even asked, distracted as he was by her face, and the smile dancing along her mouth. But then he registered the way she’d said it, her expression entirely too innocent, and—oh, Ben had _told_ her, hadn’t he?

Holding back his smile, Shanks mused, “Ah, but what _is_ a famous pirate? Someone with a big bounty?”

She snorted, and clapped a hand over her nose a second later, averting her eyes, and he was almost too startled to laugh.

“ _Makino._ Curb your filthy thoughts, that wasn’t meant as a euphemism!” Although knowing him, Roger probably would have gotten a kick out of the suggestion.

She was trying very hard not to laugh, he could see, and when she looked at him her indignation was spoiled somewhat by the blush that darkened her cheeks. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she huffed. “You’re the reason I’m even jumping to that conclusion!”

“ _Me_? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am the essence of discretion, mind and soul.”

Makino shook her head, but she was still smiling, and when he poured her another drink she nudged her glass against his, her eyes twinkling as she lifted it to her lips, tipping it smoothly.

Putting it down, her gaze roamed across his cabin, her smile softening, and Shanks wondered what she was thinking — if she was committing it to memory, or simply imagining all the stories he’d yet to tell her, sitting in the planks, in the logbooks stacked haphazardly wherever there was space, and the maps spread across his desk.

Or maybe she was thinking about what it might have been like, if they’d been preparing to leave together, and if she might have made a home of it, in her small ways. His ship, and his quarters.

Shanks could imagine it easily enough, the kind of changes she might have wrought, logbooks neatly kept and organised, and a collection of her own. Waking in the morning to find her slipping out of his bunk, and old habit she’d brought with her.

He would have made room for that. For her, in whatever way she’d needed.

Looking towards his desk found it empty. The books he’d been collecting had been taken away, put somewhere safe so as not to spoil the surprise. Ben’s doing, Shanks suspected, and she’d find them after they’d left.

He wouldn’t be able to see her reaction, but he found he could imagine it well enough. And he’d never been so thankful for her open, earnest face than he was now, with how easily he found he could conjure it in his mind — the stubborn press of her brow, and her features alighting with surprise, and delight.

“What?” Makino murmured, catching his look.

Shanks shook his head, for once without words, but when he put his glass down and reached for her she came, reading his intention in the curl of his fingers around the back of her neck.

And she was the one who tilted her head to catch his mouth, nudging her nose against his as she moved to climb across his hips where he sat, her hands fisted in his shirt as she kissed him harder than she’d ever done.

There was some rearranging necessary, in trying to get his pants off, and a good bit of fumbling, between his only arm and the care she took not to jar him too much. But any inelegances were laughed away, their kisses hungry and careless, his a little winded, and hers gasping. And even with the ache that hadn’t relented and the fever he still felt clinging to his brow, Shanks ignored the small discomforts, and when Makino murmured her concerns against his mouth he only kissed her harder.

“Are you sure you’re up for—”

“Are you _really_ asking that question, straddling my hips?” he laughed, and shifted against her for emphasis, hearing how her breath stuttered as she felt his length through his pants.

“I’m not asking if you’re good to go, I can _feel_ that,” Makino huffed, worry creeping through the telling thickness of her voice. “I’m asking if this is too _much_ —”

He kissed her, his hand gripping the back of her neck as he pulled her down, as close as she’d come without actually being inside her, and felt the moan that swallowed her protest, gasped against his mouth.

He didn’t care if it was reckless, or selfish. If this was the last time he’d get to touch her like this, he didn’t want to spend it bedridden with his pains, or his regrets. He wanted to feel her instead, hotter than the fever around him, the small hands buried in his hair making him forget his aches. He wanted to hear her come without reservations, emboldened by the privacy of his empty ship and the promise of ten years apart, and he wanted to carve the sound of it so deep into his memory a whole decade couldn’t even hope to touch it.

They made it work, between rasping breaths and shaking, half-desperate touches. She wasn’t as hesitant as she had been, that first, fumbling time that seemed suddenly like a distant memory. Now she nudged his hand where she wanted it, until his fingers curled just _so_ and she gasped, a plea slipping between their sounds and the quiet.

Taking charge, she rucked her skirt up her hips, a delightful impatience in her hurried movements before he felt her fingers shyly gripping his cock, making his head drop back against the bunk as a groan shook loose of his chest, muffled against her mouth.

He felt Makino break the kiss. “Shanks—”

“Good groan, ‘s a _good_ groan,” he gasped, even as the words stumbled a bit over his tongue. Her grip around him tightened, as though involuntarily, and he nearly forgot how to speak, but, “Don’t worry, I’m still here,” he assured her, his laughter without breath as he looked up at her where she straddled him, her knees on either side of his hips, his length hard in her hand.

He ran his fingers through her hair, finding it damp as he tucked it behind her ear, the whole of her soft and dark, almost fey-like, and he murmured, roughly, “I’m still here.”

Her eyes were tellingly bright, but before he could say anything, something cheerfully inappropriate, to have her crying from laughing instead, Makino kissed him deeply, shifting in her seat as she did, and as she took him inside her, her knees tightening around his hips as she adjusted her weight, the sigh escaping her carrying a moan, Shanks marvelled silently at how far they’d come from their first, stumbling steps into intimacy.

He wondered if it would be like this, when he came back. That whatever else they would have to adjust to or compensate for ten years down the line, they’d manage; that they’d make it work.

He hoped so, as he buried himself in her, her back arching under his fingers and her pleasure as sincere as always, his name murmured between breaths, offered now without cheek or hesitation as he moved with her. Whatever the future looked like and whatever it made of them both, he hoped it would still allow them to find their way back. To each other, if nothing else.

 

—

 

He stole her favourite kerchief.

Watching her, small limbs entangled in the sheets, asleep on his bunk like she had no plans to ever leave it, as though they weren't setting sail in just a few hours, he'd fished it off the floor, fully intending to give it to her, but observing it where it slipped between his fingers, saw it in her hair that very first day; the girl who'd raised her chin and told him off. And a calloused thumb catching in the fabric, he found her slipping it from her hair to retie it, stealing a glance his way from under her arm; found so many early mornings in the dawn-red flowers, teasing her hair free as she tried in vain to dress him, her protests soft and laughing.

Maybe he was a sentimental idiot. Maybe he was just a thief.

Maybe the truth was neither, and he just wanted to remember her that way— _his_ , however small and selfish the claim, even if she one day forgot that she had been, or had ever wanted to be.

 

—

 

He’d never been fond of goodbyes. He'd always found them too final, even with the promise that sat in this one, of an eventual return. Better not to make a big deal of it, a see-you-later rather than a fare-thee-well, but Shanks didn’t think he could have managed to take his leave of her with anything less than the whole of his being.

“Come back to me,” Makino said, standing on the docks, his heart in her hands and her dark eyes imploring, and Shanks would have liked to meet the poor soul who could look into those eyes and not vow to try his hardest.

And he shouldn’t be making promises, because he had no idea what the future would bring, but then he’d never been good at keeping his wits about him where she was concerned. And even if he didn’t speak the words, he knew she caught them in the way he couldn’t seem to tear himself loose of her; in the reluctance that sat in every gesture. He might have refused the notion that he was _clinging_ , if that hadn't been exactly what he was doing.

And they might have said a whole lot, in that moment. They might have exhausted every cliché in the book of goodbyes, or made their very own. But Makino said nothing, and so neither did Shanks—said none of the things he wanted to, _count on it_ , and _I love you_ , and _wait for me_ , the last three the hardest of all.

He kissed her instead, until he couldn’t bear it any more. He hoped that said enough.

Then he watched her as the ship pulled away from the docks; watched her hands gripping the shoulders of the boy shedding enough tears for them both, Roger’s hat pulled low over his brow. And he was leaving lighter than when he’d arrived a year ago, one heart and one arm short, and no hat to shield his eyes from the sun.

Strange, then, that his chest felt heavier than it ever had.

 

—

 

Leaving East Blue, they made their last stop in Loguetown. A necessity for any crew seeking to enter the Grand Line, but also a ritual—and for Shanks more than most.

He hadn’t set foot there since the execution, and he felt the old ache where it gripped him, like a wound that hadn’t healed right, taking in the twisting maze of streets where they intersected between the buildings, some of them taller than he remembered, and there seemed to be altogether more people than when he’d been there last.

But beyond its infamy for being the birthplace of the Pirate King, Loguetown had always been a popular destination for sailors and merchants, boasting a booming market district, and enough inns and taverns to entertain every single crew docked along the wharf, whatever their business ashore, legal or otherwise.

The cheerful chaos embraced him like a particularly affectionate drunk, and Shanks let it carry him forward with the crowd, away from the town proper and down the cramped side-streets, the veins running into Loguetown’s beating heart, lined with shops and market stalls teeming with wares and food, a hundred different smells and sounds rising from cookeries and blacksmiths, and an assortment of drinking establishments boasting progressively cheaper drink the further in he got.

And breathing it all in, the ache in his chest lessened, eased away by the noise and the people, until he wasn’t thinking about the execution anymore, but Roger—just as loud, and with just as big a heart—who’d loved this town for a reason.

Makino had never seen a town before, Shanks remembered, manoeuvring down a busy street, the barest nudge of haki making people step out of the way, granting him passage without realising. She’d told him as much—that she’d never even set foot off the docks, and that the furthest she’d gone inland had been to visit a friend who lived in the woods. And Goa Kingdom wasn’t just farmland and forest, Shanks knew, but knowing Fuschia as he did now—the easy, carefree lives of fishermen and melon farmers—he wasn’t surprised they mostly kept to themselves. It was probably for the best, from what he’d heard of Goa.

But he wondered what she would have made of Loguetown, and what it would have been like, showing her.

The sigh that left him was as much for her as it was at himself. He really was ridiculous. They hadn’t left East Blue yet, and he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

He’d been walking, absorbed in his own thoughts, when he stopped, realising suddenly that he recognised his surroundings, and wondered for a second if his feet had taken him there by accident, or if there’d been something else guiding his way.

Shanks looked up at the shop, appearing no different than it had, well over a decade ago. There was nothing ostentatious about the facade, compared to similar shops lining the same street—no large, eye-catching signs with discount offers, or gaudy salesman’s tricks to entice passing customers and their coinpurses both (‘GRAND (LINE) OFFERS!!’ proclaimed one, below which Shanks spied a disclaimer in smaller type, which said: ‘pirates get a 20% discount, and _no_ , this isn’t a Government scheme, do you know which part of town you’re in?’). Instead, there was just a simple front door, and a window through which the displays within were visible, although obscured in part by the glare of the sun setting beyond the port.

On the door was mounted a single sign, a white-washed wooden board with the character for ‘sword’ painted on it in neat, black brush-strokes.

A bell chimed as he stepped inside, ducking through the doorway. And the door was the same as it had been, but he hadn’t been this tall the last time he’d stepped across this threshold, fifteen and skinny and drenched to the bone. Now he had to bend his head just to get inside.

“Well, now!” laughed a voice, and Shanks looked up to find the proprietor behind the counter, recognition having alighted across his face upon catching sight of him.

He was a short, stocky man, with a trimmed black beard greying along his cheeks. When he grinned, it was a smile that cut with a sharp but friendly laugh. “I’ll be damned. Shanks. Now there’s a lad I haven’t seen in a long time.” His eyes did a quick sweep across him, before he shook his head. “Not a lad anymore. And you go by ‘Red-Hair’ now, from what I hear.” He made a short guffaw. “Figured it’d have to be something like that. You were skinny as a twig, but I remember the hair.”

Shanks grinned, letting the door swing shut behind him, the bell above his head jingling merrily. “I tried getting ‘Devilishly Handsome Shanks’ to catch on, but it never did. Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, though. My mistake, I guess.”

He got a laugh for that, as Hamon leaned his hands on the counter. “Such is the way of the world. And it certainly could be worse.” A greying brow quirked, his look wryly knowing. “The general public’s judgement can be harsher than the Government’s.”

Nostalgia softened his smile, as Shanks let his eyes roam the little shop. “You’re right in that.”

He’d stopped by to get Gryphon sharpened, the last time he’d set out from Loguetown—had chosen the shop at random, too many to choose from but his feelings too bright, too _hurting_ to care which he chose as long as they’d get the job done so he could be on his way, unable to endure even the thought of lingering any longer than he had to.

The swordsmith had taken one look at him, drenched from the rain and the water hiding his tears, Roger’s straw hat soaked and dripping all over the floor, and had known right away where he’d come from.

But he hadn’t asked about the execution. Instead, he’d let him stay until the storm had passed—had sharpened and polished Gryphon to shining, asking him instead about the sword, where he’d gotten it and what it was named, keeping him talking, until his throat felt sore from it, and his tears had dried, along with his clothes. And when Shanks had offered to pay the little he’d had on him, Hamon had told him to save it.

 _You mentioned you were setting out to sea_ , he’d said, keen eyes gleaming, sharp as the blade he’d just polished, as he’d handed it back to Shanks. _You’ll need a ship for the crew you’re putting together. Those don’t come cheap._

Hamon was grinning now, watching him. A little older, and more grey in his hair than there had been, but the eyes were the same as they took him in, seeming pleased by what they found.

“So,” he ventured. “How’s life been treating you?”

Shanks saw as his eyes glanced off the scars, but he didn’t point them out. And maybe he’d heard the story, but like that rainy day when he’d been fifteen and sniffling, he allowed him to keep his secrets, a courtesy few would have offered to a pirate, even one who was just a boy.

He wasn’t a boy anymore, but Shanks felt his smile warming as the same courtesy was offered now, and with no less ease. “My course has been steady,” he said. “Well. For the most part, anyway.”

As though in response, the thought of her resurfaced, the way she’d watched his ship departing. Shanks blinked it away.

Hamon snorted, but the smile remained on his mouth. “A nice, diplomatic way of putting it, but the grapevine says otherwise.”

“It usually does,” Shanks said, stepping up to the counter.

“You here on business?” Hamon asked. “You haven’t been in these parts since you really were a lad. Or if you have, it slipped my notice, but I doubt it. I don’t miss much about the goings-on in this place. And you tend to stir the waters wherever you dock.”

Shanks smiled. “Just killing some time while we get supplies. But you’re right, this is my first time back.”

“Ah. Headed for the Grand Line, then?”

“Figured it was about time,” Shanks said, as he reached to loosen Gryphon’s scabbard from his hip. “Speaking of—I was wondering if you could give my sword some attention. Given where we’re going, it can’t hurt to be prepared. As much as I can be, anyway. Some things you just have to take in stride with that sea.”

Placing it down on the counter, he watched as Hamon reached to take it, lifting his glasses up to his nose as he inspected it, his smile brightening as he did; a master craftsman’s delight.

Running his fingers over the scabbard, Shanks saw as they paused by the flower-patterned kerchief wrapped around the hilt.

Steel-sharp eyes glanced up to meet his, curiously knowing, but he said nothing, just slid Gryphon free with care, before putting the scabbard aside.

“You’ve been taking good care of it,” Hamon observed, sounding pleased. “A fine blade, this. You don’t see this kind of craftsmanship every day.”

Shanks heard him murmuring to himself as he turned back to survey the shop, walking among the weapon stands, and the displays of swords of various shapes and make, silver rapiers and katanas and small daggers with decorative hilts of glossy wood and steel, some carved and some inlaid with precious stones. The smell of metal polish hung on the air, sharp and clean like the weapons lining the walls, filling his nose as he breathed it in, and the memories that came with it.

He came to a stop by a weapon stand, standing apart from the rest. Something about it had snagged his attention, making him pause.

There was a single sword mounted on it. A small wakizashi, not even the length of his arm, laid out beside its scabbard, made of beautifully burnished copper the colour of sea-glass, and set with silver and moonstones.

The sword itself was lovely, the polished blade arching in a slender curve, and the hilt wrapped in green to complement the scabbard. The silver guard curved upwards above the collar, a little bigger than usual. Perfect to protect a small, delicate hand.

“Beautiful, isn’t she? Last of her kind.”

He looked up to find Hamon watching him, a curious glint in his eyes. “Her maker’s passed on. She’s the last I have of his work. Take a closer look, if you like.”

Reaching for the sword, Shanks curved his fingers around the hilt. They dwarfed it, but looking at it, he could imagine another hand in its place, small and dainty, her slender fingers gripping the hilt and her knuckles arching, ivory under her skin.

He tested the weight, allowing the sword to sit in his hand a moment before he let it drop, parting the air in a clean arc and yielding a sound like a single, perfect note, before he twisted his fingers, the hilt dancing across his knuckles and back into his grip.

He was still adjusting to using his right hand, but there was some satisfaction in watching the fluid movement of the blade, even as it felt too small for his fingers. But hers…

“You’ve got a reputation for having an eye for pretty girls, Shanks,” Hamon remarked then, drawing his thoughts back from where they’d drifted, away from the graceful sword-dancer in his imagination. “I’m not surprised she’d strike your interest. She’s good for blocking, if you need an extra blade.” He glanced at his left side, but he didn’t mention the arm, just said, “But I have a feeling you’re not looking for something for yourself.”

“No,” Shanks said, smile a little sombre. “It would be a gift.”

“Oh?” Hamon chuckled, his look knowing, but for a whole other reason, this time. “That’s not a small gift.”

Shanks just smiled, his eyes on the sword.

 _I can’t picture myself with a sword_ , he remembered Makino saying, the memory fresh, from their last visit—and remembered her doubt when he’d told her he’d had no trouble picturing the same.

 _A small one,_ he’d clarified. _One that’s better suited your size. With practice, I imagine you’d be very graceful._

He thought he would have gotten it for her, had she come with him—that he would have loved teaching her, if she’d let him. And maybe it was a foolish sentimentality, imagining what could have been.

He looked at the sword again, seeming to stare back at him, the polished blade like a mirror, reflecting his expression, scars and all, before he’d shifted it, allowing it to catch the fading light. There was a prickling at the back of his mind, acute and familiar.

 _Siren_ , Shanks thought, the name manifesting, like it had come from somewhere else. It had been the same with Gryphon; as though the sword had named itself. Or rather, as though it had simply told him.

He’d made his decision before the last syllable could finish chiming through his head, like the first notes of a song he’d heard once before, but couldn’t remember in full.

“How much?”

 

—

 

He was walking back to the ship when he felt it—a familiar presence, unmistakable in the way it cut through his mind, the sensation like slicing his thumb on a sharp knife.

His surprise only lasted a second. Rumour was already out about his arm, and even if he’d rather eat his own hat than admit to being _curious_ , news like that would pique even the interest of a wilful recluse like Mihawk.

“Been a while since you dropped by,” Shanks greeted, stepping up to where his ship lay docked, her sails rolled up and a fresh coat of paint adorning her timbers, like a dragon basking in the sun. “You here for a duel? Because your timing could be better.”

Standing before the gangway, Mihawk didn’t respond, his gaze having locked onto his left side, and without apology. Shanks was tempted to say he looked surprised, observing the severe furrow of his brows, his expression revealing more than usual, although that wasn’t much.

He hadn’t believed the rumours, then.

“Who?” Mihawk asked, yellow eyes lifting from the stump of his arm to meet Shanks’. It sounded more like an accusation than a question.

Shanks thought he might have scratched the back of his head, if he’d had two hands. As it was, his only one was occupied, holding Siren. But his smile conveyed the sheepishness he was going for—the one Mihawk would claim he’d long since outgrown. “Would you believe me if I said I was so drunk I can’t remember? Although I have this vague impression that it was someone really ugly. Toothy smile. Bad skin, almost like a gator? I don’t know. It haunts me, sometimes.”

That wholly unimpressed mien didn’t even twitch, and Mihawk said nothing, although Shanks had a feeling this wouldn’t be the end of this conversation.

He glanced at what he was carrying then, the brown paper wrapping covering the scabbard, but Shanks wasn’t surprised when Mihawk surmised, “You’ve purchased a new blade. What is wrong with your current?”

Shanks didn’t hold it up for inspection, but felt the gentle weight of it in his grip. “Bought it on impulse,” he chirped. “You know I can’t resist shiny things. I think I might have a problem.”

“Why do you lie?”

Shanks grinned, but felt how it tensed. “Why are you so _nosy_ all of a sudden? You never show interest in my personal life. The last time I tried to share anything with you, you told me to put a sock in it. Not in those exact words, of course—you talk like someone out of a stuffy historical novel. I added the sock.”

Mihawk was watching him, brows still furrowed above his eyes, which looked as uncanny as ever, and that was without being subjected to this kind of brutal assessment, which felt a little bit like being ripped to shreds by a particularly vindictive bird. Shanks had a mind to tell him.

“Something is wrong with you,” Mihawk said then.

“You’ve always thought that,” Shanks pointed out.

“More than usual.”

“Gee, Hawk-Eyes. Don’t hold back or anything. Tell me how you _really_ feel.”

When his frown persisted, Shanks sighed. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just this place. I’m feeling a little nostalgic, and you know how sappy I get. I was in tears just stepping off the ship. Ben had to carry me off the gangway.”

“Another falsehood,” Mihawk observed, not a beat missed. A single dark brow lifted, although not enough to answer to amusement, even as he said, “You used to be a better liar.”

“I also used to be cute as a button and impressively limber between the sheets,” Shanks countered. “Things change. But at least I still have my hair. And the sexual limberness is arguably still achievable, as long as I warm up first.”

Mihawk didn’t dignify either remark with a comment, just continued to watch him, as though knowing that if he persisted long enough, Shanks would cave, chatty to a fault, and never one to pass up the opportunity to do it.

And he was right, but then they had been rivals for a long time. Friends for just as long, at least if you asked Shanks.

He thought of the sword in his hand. That perfect, slender blade, and the green scabbard, like the sea-glass in her hair. The memory he kept of her, the image still sharp, but he wondered how many months before it dulled, and how many years before he couldn’t recall it at all.

“Alright,” Shanks said at length. “I’ll tell you about her.”

Nothing changed in his face, his expression unyielding, but Shanks caught the barest flicker of interest in his eyes. “Her?”

He smiled. And he might have teasingly accused him of being intrigued, but Mihawk was entirely liable of turning on his heel and stalking off, and standing there with Makino’s sword in his hand and the East Blue waiting to see him off for the last time in ten years, Shanks thought he could use a friend—and a drink. And Ben had already promised there’d be drinking, until he was so shitfaced he forgot where they were setting sail; they’d all promised him that, but for some reason, Shanks felt like he needed this—to talk about her, and to someone who didn’t already know her.

“Yeah,” he said, voice too tender to be anything but entirely obvious, but Mihawk didn’t call him out on it, or his painfully afflicted smile.

“Her.”

 

—

 

The Grand Line was at once like he remembered, and completely different. The weather was still a tempestuous thing, and the tides treacherous on a good day, but they all greeted him like a stranger now—as a captain in his own right. In some ways, it was an entirely new sea altogether.

But Shanks was happy to find that no matter the ocean and no matter the title he carried, some things stayed the same.

“Kiddo,” Rayleigh greeted him, laughing as he stepped through the door to Shakky’s bar. And Shanks knew he’d heard about the arm even before that keen gaze shifted towards his left shoulder, although his cloak hid it well enough. “What world of trouble did you get yourself into this time?”

Shakky poured him a drink, sliding it across the counter towards him, and with his fingers gripping the glass, Shanks thought of a different tavern, and hands bumping against each other. Silly games for smitten teenagers, and things better suited safer waters—better suited the world he was leaving behind, than the one waiting for him on the sea ahead.

His smile probably didn’t succeed in masking the regret that had followed him from Loguetown and across Paradise, but, “It’s a long story,” Shanks said, and even as he said it he found the words came to him without effort, talking about the little boy with the big dream who’d reminded him so much of Roger.

Rayleigh just listened, his smile growing wider with every detail, until he was laughing outright, his years sitting light on his shoulders. And he hadn’t used to laugh like that when they’d been in the same crew, Shanks remembered, but the life he’d chosen—unexciting as it might appear to some, for the man who’d been the right hand of the Pirate King—had left its tender marks, in deeper laugh-lines at the corners of his eyes, which kept fleeting to the woman behind the bar, warmed as though with a perpetual inside joke.

It was a mellow atmosphere, an easy sort of peace tucked away at the heart of an ocean that was never still for long, and it felt good to ease the burdens of his voyage so far with a stiff drink and a story, the way he liked best.

“Something tells me that’s not all of it,” Rayleigh said then, when Shanks was finished, his eyes glinting behind the glasses perched on his nose; a look that was achingly familiar, having often been offered to a young man who’d fancied himself a better liar than he was.

Shanks considered him, seated at the bar like he’d never been meant to be anywhere else, smiling as he poured himself another drink and laughingly waving off Shakky’s perfunctory reminder that he needed to pay his tab.

It was, all things considered, an oddly hopeful scene.

Looking into his glass, he wondered what Makino was doing. It had been a year since he’d left her; a year of strange islands and trouble and long nights spent looking up at the ceiling of his cabin, trying to remember her voice. His crew was already bigger than it had been, and his name was making the papers too often for it to have slipped her notice, even in her quiet corner.

He wondered sometimes if she found her life too quiet without him.

Was is wrong to hope that she did?

“Oh?” Shakky said then, lifting her cigarette from her lips, a smile tugging her mouth upwards at the corners. “It's a woman.”

Rayleigh’s brows lifted, and Shanks didn’t even try to hide his smile, allowing it to stretch across his face, wider than he’d felt it go, in the long year since their departure.

“Oh, no—I’ve seen that look before,” Rayleigh said, the words tinged with something old and acutely knowing, but he was smiling, Shanks saw. “Although Roger wasn’t quite so obvious about it.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Shakky said, leaning her elbows on the counter. “So, Red-chan. Who is it that’s got you smiling like that?”

Shanks felt as it softened, gaze dropping to his glass, and the calm waters of his drink. And unlike the night they’d left Loguetown, there was a part of him now that wanted, selfishly, to keep her; to not share any more of her, the way he still remembered her.

But he thought of the sea that awaited him, and the years vaster still. And he thought of Makino’s novels, and the stories that endured, caught and held between the pages and never forgotten, so long that there was someone to read them.

And it wouldn’t be too much, he thought, to leave a part of himself here. A small snippet of their story, not yet finished, but bookmarked for later.

He didn't touch her kerchief where it hung at his side, but flicking his eyes to it invoked the image of how she'd been, the day they’d met, and the day he’d left her; the same, quietly determined expression on her face, both times directed at him, but for two completely different reasons. It wasn’t the same girl who’d seen him off from Fuschia that he’d met a year before, but it had been the same heart. Shanks doubted a whole decade would change that, and it didn’t matter if he forgot other things, as long as he could remember that.

And with it in mind, he chose his words with care, plucking details from his memory, to paint a picture that would do her justice. That vast, open heart. Her quietly dry humour.

“She’s a barmaid,” he told Shakky, whose first response was to ask how much she charged, but her eyes gleamed as Shanks talked about Party’s, the warm heart of a sleepy port.

“She’s got a knack for observation haki,” he said, and watched as Rayleigh’s brows quirked, intrigued, as Shanks told him how she’d described it with growing eagerness, and a pride that warmed his stomach long after he’d finished his drink.

And, remembering—“She said I felt like a mild hangover,” Shanks said, and Rayleigh laughed harder than he’d ever heard him do, until he had to wipe tears from his eyes, before wryly agreeing to his assessment that he hadn’t exaggerated her skill.

But even as he talked about her, there were some things he kept to himself, fierce intimacies that no one else needed to know, and that he hoped—and foolishly, because ten years was a long time to keep someone waiting, even a heart as patient as hers—that no one else would ever know like he did.

“I made her a promise,” Shanks said, considering the bar, his thoughts still fleeting to another one, miles and seas away, but somehow, meeting Rayleigh’s knowing look with a grin that was more suited the swabbie he’d been than the captain he'd become, the weight in his chest rested, a suddenly comfortable thing.

“And it’s one I intend to keep.”

 


	4. an odyssey's end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10 years pass, during which Shanks...camps a lot? And conquers 1/4 of the New World. He really is a delightful contradiction.

He’d never felt older—and at once, never so young at heart—as he did when he held Luffy’s wanted poster for the very first time.

“That kid,” Shanks laughed, and with a grin so fierce his cheeks hurt. “I can’t believe he did it.”

Mihawk cut him a look from over the rim of his mug. And even if he’d shot down the extended offer of a duel, he seemed to have no qualms about throwing his opinions around, even unspoken.

He was paying precious little attention to the party unfolding around him, poised like the bird of prey from which he’d derived his moniker. Shanks had half a mind to tell him to relax before he blew an artery.

“You told me once, if you remember,” Mihawk said then, his look still carefully assessing, “that there was a woman waiting for you in that village.”

He didn’t even bother circling the subject, and Shanks ignored the sharp jab between his ribs at the mention of her, willing his smile to remain as he turned to look at Mihawk. “Do I remember? I’m surprised _you_ remember.”

Mihawk lifted his mug to his lips, and said, “I keep a journal of all your foolish endeavours.”

“What—really?”

“I meet regularly with your first mate. We exchange notes. And mutual grievances.”

“God, you two are made for each other. I should have known you were in cahoots.”

Mihawk didn’t drop his gaze, or make an effort to make it any less condemning. And Shanks wondered then, what he saw, and if there was anything left of the rival he’d once challenged so proudly, or if all that remained was a tired has-been, with one arm and a lifetime of bad choices.

“If memory serves, you made her a promise you would return," Mihawk said then. Shanks had to wonder why he was even pressing the issue, and felt the petulant urge to ask, when Mihawk added, "And yet something tells me you will not be setting your course to East Blue any time soon." Then, and with more open curiosity than Shanks had thought him capable of demonstrating, least of all willingly, “Why?”

He felt the weight of Ben’s gaze, and ignored it. Yasopp had stopped laughing, and even Lucky seemed to be paying attention, having paused his chewing. The whole camp had gone suddenly quiet.

“Not yet,” Shanks confirmed at length, when a tense lull had passed, acutely aware of all the eyes on him. _Meddling old men_. “There is a reason. I just—I can’t explain it.” Because how did he even begin to describe the uncanny feeling that sat like a stone at the bottom of his stomach; the sense that something was about to happen? That when the time came, he couldn’t be halfway across the world, idling in a seaside village, even if he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his goddamn life doing just that?

Mihawk arched a single brow, but no comment was offered on his paltry explanation, and for all that he couldn’t find the words, Shanks thought he'd heard them all the same.

“That is an unusually grave expression, for you,” Mihawk said instead.

He tried to make his grin less openly deprecating, although didn’t feel like he was successful. Of course, that had never stopped him from being insufferable. “Yeah? Maybe I'm just trying to mimic _you_.”

A snort. “Fool.”

Shanks laughed, even hearing how it sounded; brittle and unconvincing. “You don't have to tell me.”

He looked at Luffy’s wanted poster again, and the kid who’d barely reached his hip, grinning back at him from the face of a young man. _Ten years._

But the scar was the same, curving like a smile under his eye. His actual smile, too, wide and guileless. _Carefree_ , and Shanks could almost hear the laughter in it, delighting in the mischief that had no doubt earned him the bounty under his name, a cheerfully ridiculous sum for a rookie who’d been at sea only a few weeks. Ten years hadn’t changed everything about Luffy, and the implication that followed made it hard to keep his smile from revealing every single ounce of hope he felt, and that he was trying so hard to temper.

He wondered how she’d changed, and how she’d stayed the same—if she still rose with the sun, to do her small chores before she opened the bar, and if she still went up to the hill, to sit beneath the old tree and read. He wondered if she still slept on the left side of her bed, the way she'd taken to doing after she'd welcomed him into it.

He wondered if anyone else had shared it since; if she’d found someone who made her happy, the way she deserved to be. He wondered if she still thought about him, and what—if she still believed he’d come back, or if she’d given up hoping.

“Soon,” he said then, because whatever Makino thought of him now, he still intended to keep his promise. “I’ll go back soon.”

There was a laden silence, ushered in by the declaration. Shanks felt the note of tension in it, their wary anticipation that didn’t quite dare answer to _hope_ , held back by the knowledge that they all carried with them; that the sea didn’t always allow the sailor his safe return.

“There is still the question if she will have you,” Mihawk said then, and the tension lifted—evaporated with a breath, and caught off guard, Shanks felt his own where it rushed out of him, dragging a startled laugh with it.

“There's a betting pool,” Ben interjected, before he could even open his mouth. “I don’t suppose you’d like to add your doubts to the pot, Hawk-Eyes?”

Shanks gaped, although he suspected his grin ruined his attempt at convincing offence. “Ben, you mutinous weasel! I’ll toss your ass overboard.”

“I’d believe that threat,” Ben said, cutting him a look, “if you could actually get to the next island without my help, let alone back to East Blue.”

“It is a stretch,” Mihawk agreed. “Although if she has any sense, she will count her blessings if he does get lost.”

Shanks was about to protest when another voice rose up from across the camp—“Maybe she’d take me instead, Boss!”

Someone else spluttered. “As if she would, with your face!”

“What? She didn’t seem to mind Boss’ face.”

“That was ten years ago. Hard to tell what she’d think of him now.”

“As if you’re the better alternative. Thirty years old and you can’t even grow a beard.”

“At least I still have two hands!”

Laughter, echoed several ways, before someone shouted, “Yeah, and if you knew what to do with 'em, that might be a selling point! Rather one hand that can do the work than two that can’t find their way without a map, eh, Boss?”

“I’m not dignifying that with an answer,” Shanks shot back, grinning. Mihawk just lifted his mug to his lips.

It didn’t deter his crew in the least, all of them pitching their suggestions now, before a voice rose up above the rest, “Okay, so how about this—we’ll all line up, and then she can _choose_. That seems fair, doesn’t it?”

More laughter, sounding cheerfully uncontained, and the sheer volume of which was getting close to what they were known for, at least going by the mildly suffering expression on Mihawk’s face. But there was an old comfort to be found in their mutinous teasing, all from a crew that knew him well enough not to let him linger too long with his doubts.

Shanks watched the sliver of sea visible from between the trees. Miles to East Blue, the distance so great it could be counted in seas. It was hard to imagine he could ever cross it again—that the man he was now could step onto the docks of that little port, and find her waiting for him.

He didn't know how much she knew about who he was now. A fair bit, he suspected, if she read the paper, and maybe Garp had filled in the blanks, for better or worse. Shanks didn't know if it mattered to her, being Emperor. Perhaps it should.

And maybe it was selfish, hoping that it didn't matter—hoping that she'd still choose _him_ , regardless.

 _Wait for me,_ he thought, the appeal a suddenly fierce thing, as thought it could somehow reach her with force of will alone. But he thought about the wanted poster in his hand, and Luffy, well on his way to keeping his own promise.

And he thought about the girl in that little port who’d said _come back to me_ , and who’d made him hope there was a future to be had, even for a man like him. Emperor or not.

_Just a little longer._

 

—

 

He’d thought of calling her more than once.

It was an impulse that struck him from time to time, usually if he’d had a bit too much to drink, but he imagined picking up the Den Den Mushi, and of waiting for her to answer—of hearing her voice over the line, and being able to breathe again, finally remembering the sound of it.

She’d be surprised by the call, but he’d recover quickly, Shanks thought; or not at all, suddenly wordless at the prospect of speaking with her, but whatever was the case, there’d be laughter, he knew. His, definitely. Hopefully hers.

It was a small thing to want, when he’d already waited so long, and sometimes—usually when he’d had a _lot_ to drink—he could almost convince himself that it was worth it.

But something always brought him back down to earth. His better sense, usually, or just the desire to keep her safe, which even blind drunkenness couldn’t make him forget, or disregard. He knew the Government had him wiretapped, and he wasn’t about to risk her safety just because he feared he’d never get to see her again. Sengoku might not spare her a second thought, a woman in a remote port in East Blue, but if word got out—if Akainu or Kizaru caught wind of it, or worse, Teach…

The Den Den Mushi stared back at him, expressionless, and yet somehow seeming to urge him to reach for the receiver. They’d set their course for Marineford, but if something happened to him—if this was his last chance to hear her voice—

Letting out the breath he’d been holding, he ran his hand through his hair, and forcibly dismissed the thought, rising from his bunk and ignoring the snail where it sat, quietly tempting.

He glanced at the sword on his desk—the polished copper scabbard where it caught the light from beyond the porthole, the moonstones lit as though from within. His keepsake for ten years, an anchor to a part of her that was mostly his imagination, and even if it had helped, holding on to it, it didn’t change the fact that it had no connection to the girl in his memory, beyond what he’d given it himself. And she’d been lovely in her _realness_ , and more than his imagination could ever hope to replicate. The sword was just a sword.

But touching his fingers to the scabbard, it settled his heart somewhat, knowing that at least she _was_ safe, halfway across the world. There was no war there, no Emperors fighting for power, and no Government interference masquerading as justice. If she’d come with him when he’d asked her, she would have been going with him now, to whatever awaited them in Marineford.

She was _safe_ , and Shanks would make sure she stayed that way, whatever it took. He’d waited ten years to hear her voice. He could endure another few weeks.

He just hoped—and therein lay the crux of the issue, the reason for his insecurities, that prompted him to reach for the Den Den Mushi without thinking, his heart deciding before his head could reel it back in—that she felt the same.

 

—

 

“Holy shit,” Yasopp breathed, the quiet murmur stirring the air, his breath fogging white as he stared across the water where they’d crept between the scattered ships and the ice.

Shanks didn’t return the sentiment, his acknowledgment the silent furrow of his brow as he watched Marineford coming into view, broken beyond belief but somehow still standing, a stubborn, almost regal resilience that was a silent testament to the military force it represented — the rookies in their freshly pressed uniforms picking themselves up from the rubble, proud and terrified, but determined more than anything else.

Something shivered down his back, an ill omen like death’s caress, and he wondered not for the first time what his plan was. Sengoku would see reason, that much he knew — to the marrow of his bones, that was a truth Shanks would hinge his entire faith on. He had to, if not for his own sake, then for the sake of all the kids spilling their blood on that broken battlefield. For the world that existed beyond the Grand Line; the quiet ports that had only ever known peace.

But there were more actors in this grotesque play than the Fleet Admiral, and with that thought sat another, heavy like an anchor in his gut.

And over the course of his life, he'd had his share of close encounters with danger to be intimately familiar with his own mortality. And he'd known, the day he'd put Fuschia behind him, and the girl standing on the docks as his ship had pulled away from the port for the last time, that he might not make it back. And in the ten years that had passed since, he'd often revisited the thought, but he'd never felt it as strongly as he did now, the unforgiving reminder of just how little mercy the sea had for those who lived their lives on her back, a harsher judgement offered only by the World Government, for those who did and named themselves _pirates._

“Ben,” Shanks said, voice pitched low so as not to carry further. On deck, the rest of his crew stood, tense and silent. Both were unusual, and he felt the wrongness of it in his whole body.

There was no smell of cigarette smoke, and that was telling enough of Ben’s state of mind, but, “You’re not going to say something pessimistic, are you?” he asked. “Because that's not like you. And this is really not the time.”

Shanks smiled, but felt as it shattered, brittle on his mouth. The smell of gunpowder pierced the sea air, carrying a damning promise even before they got close enough to catch the tang of fire and blood rising up beneath. And hell itself didn't look this bad, Shanks thought, catching sight of the bodies floating in the water.

“If I make it out of this,” he said then, as Red Force slithered past the ice towards the broken plaza, the din of the approaching battle drowning out the sound of his thoughts, but not the thought of her, a desperately welcome quiet, as he brushed his fingertips along the kerchief looped around Gryphon's hilt. “I’m going back.”

Ben said nothing, but then no response was needed. And Shanks wasn’t one for cynicism, but it was a compromise; a middle-ground between his usual optimism, and the kind of realism that _war_ demanded. A vow that didn't seek to hope too much, but that couldn't help but hope a little, regardless, seeking a foothold between _if I don’t make it out of this_ , and _when I do._

But he hinged his hopes on _when_ , anyway, because ten years had changed a lot of things, but not that—the too-young, fiercely optimistic belief that he would see her again, one way or another.

 

—

 

"She might have changed her mind," he told Garp, standing on the battlefield with his heart bared, like Makino's favourite kerchief. A thief of more than just personal belongings, at least to the old marine passing down his judgement.

"She hasn't," Garp said, without kindness or approval, but Shanks thought he might have struck him down where he stood and it wouldn't have fazed him, the truth having already knocked his feet out.

And it felt wrong, he thought, as he struggled to catch his breath from the admission, the ceasefire barely an hour old and the war like an open wound, to feel so selfishly, deliriously _happy_.

 

—

 

The war lasted a single day, but it was a longer day than he'd experienced in his thirty-seven years, and Shanks knew the aftermath would linger longer still. The sea would never be the same.

He watched the graves, his back to the sun. There was a weight sitting in his chest, watching the smaller of the two and remembering the freckled kid who’d turned up one day, and who’d greeted him with so much enthusiasm and cheek; who'd talked about his little brother until he’d had no more breath left to speak, and who'd told him, expression entirely too knowing, that Makino had said to say _hello._

Roger’s boy, barely into adulthood _. Luffy’s brother_ , now dead and buried. The knowledge of his failure sat, along with the heaviness that Shanks recognised intimately as regret, wondering if he could have changed things. If he’d appealed to Whitebeard earlier, or if he’d just reached the battle sooner…

He thought of Roger, and the family that had been left behind at his death; the woman he’d loved so fiercely, and the son who’d grown up hating him. He thought of the little village in East Blue, and the woman who waited there, the one he’d imagined more than once carrying that tender burden, stomach rounding in the proud cradle of her palms, standing on the wharf when he walked off the ship, her smile welcoming him home. A fool’s dream, maybe, and _yet_ —

“I’m sorry,” Shanks said—to the graves, for what he hadn’t been able to do, and to the sea, hoping it might carry the words with the tide, to the one who was still waiting for him to act. To come back, like he’d promised.

Whitebeard’s crew were taking their leave as he made to walk back to Red Force, many of them lingering. Shanks hadn’t asked what they planned to do next. He could make a fair guess, although where Blackbeard had gone, no one knew. And had he been younger he might have tried to appeal to reason—to say that their captain wouldn’t have wanted them to waste their lives for his sake. But he’d been on this sea long enough to recognise what injustice made of fiercely just hearts.

And anyway—had he been younger and it had been his captain, Shanks didn’t know if he would have reacted any differently.

He met Marco as he made to cross towards the shoreline where they’d dropped anchor, some ways beyond the shallows. The little islet lay far removed, a remote corner of his own territory that wasn’t reached with ease, protected by a stretch of particularly wilful currents that were difficult to navigate.

The ocean breeze sighed through the grass, and the sea of flowers. Shanks felt it rustling the folds of his cloak, carrying the smell of sun and brine across the islet, all the way to the graves behind him. A fitting resting place, for a king and a prince. The best Shanks had been able to find.

Marco was standing with his hands in his pockets, his gaze on the graves, before they lifted to meet his. “Where are you headed after this?”

Coming to a stop, Shanks smiled. And with any other crew, he wouldn’t have shared his plans so freely, but even if they’d been enemies once, things had changed. The war had seen to that.

And so, “East Blue,” he said, honestly. And it felt strange, saying it. Just the prospect of setting their course to that sea after so long seemed almost too much to believe. It left his breath light, thinking about it—of seeing her. That he would see her, whatever else that meeting brought.

Through the veil of grief, a flicker of recognition kindled his eyes, as a small smile flitted across Marco’s mouth. “The barmaid in Fuschia village, yeah?”

Shanks blinked, so surprised his smile dropped, and Marco shook his head, as though having realised the implication; the suggestion of common knowledge. “Ace told us about her. In excessive detail. I think he might have had a crush.” Despite the wry amusement warming the words, his smile took on a harder edge at the mention of Ace, and Shanks saw he made an effort not to look at the graves now.

The sigh that left him didn’t quite succeed in being a laugh; it didn’t feel like the place for it, even as he remembered the boy who’d been all cheek, who’d barely been old enough to drink but who’d praised Shanks’ taste in whiskey when he’d been served a glass, and said, _I’ve got an acquired taste for my age. I blame Makino-san, for teaching me never to settle for less._

The remark had been about more than just the whiskey, Shanks had known from the smile that had accompanied it, a shrewdness that invoked the man who’d sired him, but then, and with a laugh that had abruptly made him look like the boy he’d been, _But don’t tell her I said that! She’d be mortified._

“Yeah,” Shanks murmured, smiling. “I got that impression.”

Marco looked at him then, the expression on his face suggesting that he had more to say, and Shanks wondered if it would be a warning—to tread carefully, or to just leave well enough alone. Loss often made cynics of the bereaved, and it wasn’t as though Shanks didn’t know what kind of fate he was courting, forming attachments beyond the crew under his command; that he wasn’t aware of the position it would put her in, if he went back.

Emperors didn’t interfere with matters outside their own jurisdictions, least of all on seas outside the New World. What right did he even have to go back there now, and to bring that part of himself into her life? What had he done to deserve that—to deserve her, who already had a life without him, and one that might be better off that way? Safer, at the very least.

“Ace said she was the kindest person he’d ever met,” Marco said then, and Shanks blinked, brought back to find him looking at the graves, before his gaze turned back to his. “Makino.”

Breathing felt like it suddenly required effort, the casual mention of her name almost more than he could bear, but, “She is,” Shanks agreed, surprised at how rough his voice sounded.

Marco didn’t quite smile. “This sea doesn’t have a lot of that. Kindness. At least not the sort that doesn’t ask for something in return.” He looked at Shanks, and said, “But sometimes it’ll dredge it up from unexpected places.”

Then, the corner of his mouth lifting, no longer just the shadow of a smile this time, “You’re a good man, Red-Hair,” Marco said. And if Shanks had expected a warning—to be told he should know better, that this sea should have taught him better—it wasn’t what he got. “I hope it works out for you.” His smile eased a bit. “And your barmaid.”

The wish was simple, nothing but good will behind it, but maybe the staggering simplicity was why it felt like he’d been sucker punched.

Marco inclined his head in parting, before he turned to walk towards the group of pirates waiting by the shore. His division, Shanks suspected. Or what remained of them, anyway.

He didn’t move to leave right away, considering Marco’s parting words. And even if he didn’t feel like he’d made much of a difference, he wondered—like with that old, ratty paperback, so many years ago now—if that even mattered to her at all.

When he approached the shore, it was to find his crew waiting; Ben, his arms crossed over his chest, not a question in his eyes but something else, and Shanks was reminded of a different time, a different sea, and _I’d like to see how this pans out._

But it was Yasopp who stepped forward, gripping his shoulder. “Time to do something right, Boss,” he said, with the stark, kindred understanding of someone who’d long felt he’d failed to do so, before his grin stretched, wide across his face, the crooked edge yielding to something fiercely earnest.

“Let’s go home.”

 

—

 

Fuschia hadn’t changed much.

It was the first thought that struck him as they drew into port, prow cleaving the water like a sigh. Shanks felt his own as it shook free of him, the smile that had come to settle when Dawn Island first came into view having only stretched wider the closer they got.

The little hamlet looked untouched, nestled on the island's edge like the world had forgotten it was even there. And ten years had come and gone, the currents had changed and the sea with them, but it was almost possible to forget that here, taking in the sight of the village, almost comically picturesque, the white beach draped like a glittering necklace along the shore, the water green and perfectly clear, not a single secret to be found in these shallows, the sea baring her every feeling.

Sunlight danced off slated rooftops and the dinghies bobbing by the wharf, the colours of the houses seeming brighter than what was normal, and even the gulls sounded more cheerful here, than on the sea they'd come from.

They scrambled to drop anchor, their usual efficiency only mildly hindered by the anticipation that sat in every soul on deck. Shanks felt it, seeming to spur him on, and when he walked off the gangway, the docks creaking under his feet, it felt like he’d left the past decade on the ship, to sink to the bottom of the port with the anchor.

“Hey—Red-Hair!”

He turned his head at the call, and recognised the fisherman who'd made it, an older man than when Shanks had seen him last, peering up at him from his dinghy, his eyes shielded from the sun with the flat of his palm. In the shade of his hand curved a grin, wide and knowing. “You’re late.”

Shanks grinned, accepting the tender reproach. “And hoping to be forgiven for it.”

“Heard you're busy on the high seas these days. Emperor, was it?” He huffed, smiling. "I don't know what that means. You still look the same to me."

He wondered if his expression let slip the hope that clenched in his gut at that remark. "Yeah?" Shanks laughed. "And here I was going for a brand new look. I even got new shorts for the occasion."

The smile he got in return said enough. "You here to stay this time?"

There was movement around him, the others walking off the gangway, and Ben’s voice, rising calmly over the din and their laughter. Someone clapped his shoulder in passing, and the cheerful tumult let slip more than one expression of awe, from those who were stepping onto these docks for the very first time.

It felt, curiously, like old and jagged pieces falling into place, in a puzzle that he’d spent the past ten years trying to figure out.

“For a time. If the lady permits,” Shanks answered honestly. He knew he couldn’t stay for good, not yet, but it was a start. And more than that, it was what he needed now; the knowledge that he had something to come back to. Someone who'd want him to—who wanted _him._

The old man watched him, and Shanks wondered what he was thinking—if there was condemnation in the eyes shielded under his hand, or something else, something far kinder than he probably deserved.

“Ah, speaking of Makino-chan,” he said then, the words warmed with a laugh. “There she is.”

It was probably a little ridiculous how quickly his head snapped around at the mention, and he heard the laughter that followed, not condemning at all, and picked up by the crew around him, but Shanks had no thoughts left to offer any of them, every single one seized by the sight of her; his first in ten years.

She’d come into view of the wharf, the village at her back, like she’d stood once in nothing but her nightdress. And for a single, breathless second, he wasn’t sure what she’d do.

Then she broke into a run, and his doubts fled, the tension in his shoulders releasing him almost physically, and when she was close enough for him to catch her gaze, her face a myriad of expressions and her heart open and bared, Shanks found it was a small miracle the sight left him standing.

She collided with him between breaths, and he caught her with an ease he hadn’t yet mastered when they’d parted last, his arm wrapping around her back, pulling her close even as she pushed forward. And she’d trusted him to catch her, but as they stumbled back, his laughter pulling free of his chest like she’d knocked it loose, he was almost tempted to let her take him down, just for the kick of it.

And then she was everywhere, small hands fisted in his cloak and her face buried in his chest, as though she intended to press herself as close as humanly possible, and when he sighed it took all his strength not to sink to his knees with her still in his grip.

"That's quite the welcome for someone who's kept you waiting so long," Shanks heard himself saying, the words coming to him of their own accord, and her answering laugh was the loveliest sound he’d heard in ten years.

When she drew back to look up at him, he wondered if the quaver in his voice was as obvious as it felt, as he murmured, "Although to be fair, you did say yourself that I'd be late."

Watching him, Makino just shook her head, although Shanks didn't know at what. And she was...so infinitely more beautiful than he remembered, the past ten years seeming barely to have touched her, even as he found the tender evidence in the pale touch of silver to the roots of her hair, and the gentle lines at the corners of her eyes.

She still wore her feelings without reserve, and he watched them now as they made themselves comfortable on her face, the shape of it far beyond what Shanks could have conjured without assistance—the delicate line of her jaw too perfect, her eyes too large, too dark to even imagine, but nothing exposed the shortcomings of his memory more than the fierce, boundless affection in them as she looked at him.

He saw her decision as she made it—read it across her whole face, and so easily he almost blurted a laugh, delighted _, relieved_ that he still could—and when she threw her arms around his neck he met her, his arm tightening around her back as he lifted her up for a kiss that he felt all the way to his marrow.

Breaking it, their lips still touching, her breath his own, “I hope you realise we’ll never hear the end of this,” Shanks laughed, feeling how his fingers shook, curved around her back, and his grin where it faltered. Just touching her made him feel like his knees would give out.

He felt her breath catching, a stutter too soft to be a laugh, and when she looked at him this time she’d never looked lovelier—or more determined.

“Let them,” Makino said, breathed the words, expression wild and bright and unashamed, and when he dipped his head to kiss her this time it was bruising—was gasping and laughing and so full of tongue it probably should have come with a warning for viewer discretion.

Oh, they really would give them hell for this, Shanks knew, even before he heard the laughter erupting across the wharf, but couldn’t make himself care. Not as Makino pressed herself close, heedless of their difference in size and height, and his one arm—unmindful of the loud, cheering audience as she cupped his cheeks and kissed him like she'd never forgotten _how_ —as though she’d already made up her mind that she would fit, long years and new and harder edges be damned.

 

—

 

She stopped him before they could walk through Party’s doorway.

Shanks felt her fingers as they reached for his, the trail of them along the inside of his arm before they caught his hand, halting him in his tracks.

The ones not already inside moved past them; Shanks caught more than one grin turned their way, the bat-wing doors swinging loudly in their wake as they made to fill up her bar, until it was just the two of them left, standing in the street before the porch. At least aside from the telling number of passers-by. The whole village seemed to have collectively decided to go for a stroll.

Shanks registered their gazes, the murmurs passing just out of earshot, and the shouted greetings from those a bit bolder, but the attention didn’t seem to faze Makino, wholly focused on him, although in a different way than she had been at the docks.

This was a gentler scrutiny, an observation that took its time, although it was no less greedy, her eyes seeming to catalogue everything. Shanks bit back the teasing impulse to ask if she was taking stock of his goods.

“What?” he asked, ducking his head to catch her gaze. “This isn’t where you tell me you’ve got a husband waiting in there, is it? In which case, I hope you warned him.”

Her laugh was startled, but she didn’t respond in turn, the emotion in her eyes too tender for teasing, and, “I just wanted a moment,” Makino said. “Before everything gets a little crazy.” She flicked her eyes to the bar, before meeting his with a knowing smile. “It’s a bigger crew you’ve brought me. I’ll be run off my feet.”

Shanks thought she’d never sounded happier to be, by the slight quaver in her voice.

Smiling, he touched her cheek, and felt as she leaned into his palm, her fingers reaching up to curl around his. “You can have a moment,” he told her, roughly. “You can have as many as you want.”

Then, because he could—“I didn’t hear you refuting my suggestion about a husband,” he added, only half-joking, and the teasing ruined somewhat by how thick his voice sounded.

Her smile broke across her whole face, achingly lovely. “No husband,” Makino said. Then, wryly, “Ask anyone. It’s been a hotly debated topic.”

He tried not to let his regret show—or how pleased he was to hear it. His voice when he spoke was a low murmur, “I’ll take your word for it.”

Makino said nothing to that, just smiled up at him, although Shanks felt the weight of their conversation where it rested, the teasing suggestion on the surface hiding a deeper truth—ten years, and a fidelity that might have given anyone pause in hearing about it, nothing having bound them but a promise.

But he saw the little anchor resting in the dip of her throat, that long-ago gift he’d never verbally laid claim to giving, and wondered suddenly if she’d been wearing it all this time.

It really was a little ridiculous that he should be so _pleased_.

As though of a similar mind, Makino’s eyes travelled downwards, towards her old kerchief, but she didn’t comment on it this time, although she was so terribly easy to read, she didn’t have to. And maybe they were both ridiculous. It was entirely possible.

The question was on the tip of his tongue, the urge to ask so forceful it stole his breath, but he’d swallowed it back down before he could blurt it. _Not yet._

He didn’t always have the best timing. Sometimes, when the situation called for it, but not always. And this was far too important to ruin by just blindly going with his gut, no matter how impatient he felt, wanting to know what her answer would be—that it might be what he hoped; what he’d been hoping since she’d welcomed him back.

But she was a private creature, as demonstrated by the desire to steal a moment with him before they were both at the mercy of his whole crew. And Shanks wasn’t about to ask her to marry him in the middle of a public street. Not when he’d stepped off the ship less than an hour ago.

 _Later_ , he decided, when they had some time to themselves, and when they’d found their way back fully, through the slight awkwardness that stilled his fingers from just pulling her close and keeping her there, and that made hers pluck at her skirt, like they were dying to touch each other but couldn’t quite figure out how to begin.

He’d ask her then. Not just the question she’d told him to ask her, but the one he really wanted to ask now, and that encompassed more than just an offer to come with him; the one that asked her for forever.

He didn’t have a ring ready, as was probably the correct way to go about it, pirate or not. But he’d wanted to at least confirm that she was happy to see him before entertaining the thought of asking her to be his wife.

Of course, his poorly attempted emotional safeguard had gone out the window the moment he’d caught sight of her on the docks. So much for healthy restraint.

But looking at Makino, close enough for him to touch now—seeing the ways she’d stayed the same, lovely and feminine but no more adornments than the kerchief in her hair, and the silver anchor—a ring felt wrong. Something better suited someone else.

He thought of Siren, still in his quarters on the ship, and wondered not for the first time, what she’d make of it. In another life, he might have presented her with that, but it didn’t seem right now, standing with her here, in her quiet port. That had been the sword for the girl who might have come with him once, but that wasn’t who she was. And he’d come back for _this_ girl, and everything she was.

Maybe he’d give it to her one day, when they’d figured out what they were; when their worlds weren’t as separate as they were now.

Makino tilted her head then, her smile softly bemused. “Shanks?”

Blinking, he realised he’d gotten completely lost in thought, and had to laugh. “Just a little dumbstruck.” He grinned down at her. “Can’t really blame me, though. You really are beautiful.”

Her smile chased across her face, breathlessly lovely, and he was tempted to reiterate his point. “Still with the shameless flattery,” she murmured. “You haven’t changed.”

“What, are you complaining?” Shanks asked.

She looked at him, her eyes gleaming, coffee-brown in the afternoon sun. “Give me a second, and I’ll match you.”

His grin _hurt._ “You,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll take you up on that. I’ve missed being called a dirty vagrant.”

Makino just smiled, watching him in that way she’d used to do; that gentle possessiveness that didn’t take, but didn’t exactly ask, either.

The window to their left swung open then, and, “Seriously, Boss!” came the shout, spilling out into the street with the rest of the noise from inside. “At least speak up if you’re going to stand outside. We can’t hear anything in here!”

Several shouts of agreement sounded from inside the bar, followed by laughter, and the window beside it opening, making room for more faces, all of them grinning.

“That was kind of the point,” Shanks shot back, and to Makino, his smile sheepish, although not convincingly apologetic. “Sorry. They haven’t changed, either. It’s like I’m dragging along a kindergarten, which is a _terrible_ idea, when you think about it. I can barely be trusted to take care of myself. But at least we have Ben.”

Looking up at them, practically leaning out of the windows, Shanks shook his head, before turning back to Makino. “You wouldn’t think it’s been ten years.”

Her eyes warmed, and touching her palm gently to his chest, she tilted her head towards him, a tender kiss seeking his mouth, and it took physical effort not to duck his head and claim another as she drew away, looking up at him through her lashes.

“No,” she murmured, and flushed when someone let loose a cat-call from inside, but her smile was brighter than the colour in her cheeks, and even if he hadn’t asked her yet, Shanks thought he found her answer in the tender truth where she offered it, along with everything it implied, as she grinned up at him.

“You wouldn’t.”

 

—

 

“Really does feel like it did back then,” Yasopp mused later, pushing a glass across the table towards him as Ben lit himself another cigarette, his agreement implied in the slight jut of his smile as he reached to accept the drink.

The general din of the room seemed to exist in cheerful answer to the remark, having made itself comfortable between the four walls, like Makino’s bar was reacquainting itself with the sound of them all.

“Something’s different, though,” Yasopp said, sliding a look towards the counter, the tone of his voice noting with amusement the uncharacteristic lack of noise coming from that side of the room.

Shanks was speaking animatedly, but with unusual care, not addressing the whole room, only the woman behind the bar. The others were leaving them be, although Ben doubted they’d noticed the small courtesy, wholly engrossed in each other, and the little world they’d drawn about themselves.

“It has been ten years,” Ben heard himself say, both an answer and a reminder. He felt the years on his skin and in his muscles, and the promise of a worse war yet than the one they’d barely brushed up against. But there was something to be said for the lull between battles. The chance for a weary sailor to catch his breath, and remember why he kept fighting.

They all had their different reminders. Yasopp’s had once sat a few islands over, but was now on the sea they’d left. For the others, it was a number of different things, families waiting or waiting to be made, and even just the simple promise of _peace_ , once everything was said and done.

“Hey,” Yasopp said then, putting down his glass. Ben caught the inquisitive lilt in his voice, gentler than the unapologetic scrutiny of his gaze, but then, being at the mercy of a sharpshooter’s focus was always a little unnerving. “Level with me for a second. Did you think it was going to go like this? Back then, the day before we left, did you think we’d make it back here?”

It was a laden question, one that remembered many near-misses and dangerous situations, injuries and battles. The war, in all its bloody and terrible glory.

It was also one that anticipated what his answer would be, but then they had been friends for a long time, and Ben had never made a point to appear, or even to be, as recklessly optimistic as their captain.

Even so, “I’d hoped,” Ben said at length.

“You’re a little too pragmatic for hope,” Yasopp pointed out, but he was smiling now.

Ben felt his own quirking, casting his gaze back to the bar. Behind the counter was a display of wanted posters and newspaper clippings, all bearing Monkey D. Luffy’s grinning face and proclaiming a steadily rising notoriety.

He looked at Makino then, her elbows resting on the bar-top and her smile soft, and with eyes for nothing but the man sitting in front of her. He wondered if she’d ever lost hope—if, with each new bounty, she’d pinned it to the wall proudly and felt her heart sinking.

A laugh sounded from her then, seeming to leap above the din, so loud and so free of the restraint she’d once shown that it drew more than one pair of eyes and prompted a roomful of grins to widen, and when she had to lean on the bar for support, Ben could only shake his head.

“Something about this village, I guess,” he said around his cigarette.

A blond brow arched. “Just the village?”

“Hmm.”

Someone started singing, and badly, but before long there were more voices picking up the refrain, in a rousing rendition of the song that had her cheeks darkening so spectacularly, Ben considered for a second joining in.

His grin sat with ease on his mouth, and with his next exhale he felt himself relaxing in earnest, watching as someone climbed atop a table to solo the fourth verse, which had Makino covering her face with her hands. One of the most feared crews on the Grand Line, but here they were something else, younger men with fewer worries, and he felt it in the relief that sat, in every grin and every loose pair of shoulders sinking under the din of good humour and honest merriment, and the calm, steady presence of the tavern’s heart where she kept her quiet vigil.

And in their captain’s laughter, rising steadily above the singing now; a reminder that, for all that they had faced and would still, there was peace to be found in this world. Even for men like them.

 

—

 

“You know, say what you want about subverting your romantic expectations, but I’m pretty sure I’ve read a book of yours which included a dashing highwayman carrying his lady love into a moonlit barn this way.”

He heard her laughter, the sound filling his ears, his whole body where he carried her up the stairs, clinging to his shoulder. “One of _my_ books?” Makino asked. Shanks could imagine her smile, even as he couldn’t see it. “I can’t remember a scene like that. Are you sure you didn’t just imagine it?”

He grinned. “Could be. There’s been so many scenarios with you over the years, I’ve lost track.” Sliding his fingers up the back of her thigh to grip her ass, he caught her surprised yelp, and the breathy giggle that followed. “But you have to admit—I’d make a _very_ dashing highwayman.”

“I’m not disagreeing, but isn’t that technically what you are? Minus the highway?”

He feigned a gasp, as he cleared the landing. “The _ignorance_. Remind me to give you a lesson in the subtle nuances of roguish classifications. It’s an established system. A pirate can be a scoundrel and a rogue, but a highwayman is in a completely different category. There’s an outfit and everything. And you need a horse, preferably one that’s been stolen from the stables of the aforementioned lady love’s disapproving father. I don’t think Garp keeps horses, unless he’s taken up a new hobby.”

She sighed her laughter against his shirt where she gripped it. “Okay but you are _never_ giving me grief for my romantic notions ever again. And are you trying to segue into some kind of kinky foreplay?”

Grinning, he didn’t miss a beat. “Segue into? I started the foreplay at the bottom of the stairs. What have _you_ been doing?”

She was laughing as he shouldered through the door to her bedroom, the sound seeming to have found a home in his chest, from the warmth it left. Bending at the knee, Shanks put her down, catching her as she swayed a bit, a little lightheaded from the bottle they’d shared, her laughter softening as she fell against him, clutching his shirt between her hands.

Kissing the top of her head, he looked across her darkened bedroom, smiling at the sight. “This hasn’t changed.”

The bed was the same, taking up most of the room, the sheets neatly made and the pillows carefully arranged. He saw the little vanity with the oval mirror that her mother had built her, saw the single bottle of perfume she kept, a small indulgence and the brand the same as he remembered, and knew he could point out the drawer where she kept her kerchiefs with his eyes closed.

For a moment, he just stared at it, the quiet privacy desperately familiar, down to the ease with which she shared it with him, as she pulled the door shut behind them.

Turning towards her, Shanks watched her fingers slipping from the doorknob, to brush against her skirt as she looked at him. The soft shadows muted all her colours, dimmed the green in her hair and the brown in her eyes, giving the impression of something other-worldly. Barefoot, she stood a little shorter, her chin lifted to look up at him and her eyes vast as she took him in.

She kissed him first—rose up on her toes to pull his head down gently, before touching her mouth to his, a sigh leaving her as she did, pressing her body to his larger frame, tender in a way that he hadn’t been touched in ten years.

His response wasn’t tender, and he silenced her answering laugh with a crushing kiss as he moved, pushing her back against the door, his enthusiasm entirely wilful as he pressed himself against her, until he heard her breath catching, yielding a startled moan as Makino tilted her head and pushed back.

The bed was a forgotten thought, her small frame caged between him and the door, but she didn't seem to mind the substitute, the arch of her back seeking to fit her body against his, pushing into him and seeking to banish the space left.

There was an almost breathless desperation in her movements; in the eager hands pushing his shirt off his shoulders, and tugging at the waistline of his pants with enough impatience to tempt Shanks into asking what had happened to taking their time.

But then she was pushing them down his hips, fingertips dancing along his length, and he had no words to offer but a groan that felt like it had waited ten years, surrendered into the dip of her throat, along with something that didn't quite manage to be a kiss.

Her pulse throbbed under his mouth, seeming almost urgent, like the small hands on him, stroking him to the point of release, until it felt like his knees would give out, and— _"Wait,"_ he breathed, a winded rasp against her ear. He felt as she shivered. "I want to be in you."

Her grip tightened around him once, leaving him lightheaded from trying to hold back from coming, before her fingers left him, the reprieve dragging a groan from his chest, a starved sound of longing pushed to breaking. And he caught her smile, that still-shy thing that delighted in her small powers, before she hid it against his mouth in a kiss that stole what was left of his breath.

It took more than one attempt, between the fact that he was so hard it was difficult to focus, and her struggles with the zipper of her skirt. He caught the soft, laughing oath that escaped under her breath, a rare occurrence, and knew his grin was shameless as he reached beneath her, pushing his hand up her skirt, not helping her efforts in the least as he sought the silk of her thigh, and the beckoning heat between her legs.

And if she'd had any words of reproach to offer for not being very helpful in actually getting her _out_ of her skirt, they were soon forgotten, claimed by the sound that fell from her as he brushed his fingers against her once, before pushing inside her, and her voice hitched in a whimper so yearning it was a small wonder it didn't shove him off the edge.

Her hands fumbled, fingers shaking on the zipper, and his own pushed deeper, a deliberate, almost lazy thrust that had her surrendering some of her weight onto him, and when he drew back the plea that pulled from her seemed to chase after the movement, the tilt of her hips toward his hand silently beseeching.

“What do you want?” he murmured, but where she might once have been too embarrassed to ask, she seemed too lost to manage the words now, and he chuckled, delighted.

He indulged her, the next thrust harder, causing her eyes to flutter closed, and for a moment she seemed to forget about her skirt, sinking against him with a small sound that tempted him to continue, and it was a feat pulling his hand back, leaving her warmth. But he loved the feel of her, driven beyond reason; the way she yielded and claimed all at once, with touches and sounds that couldn't seem to decide if they wanted to beg or demand.

Grin tucked to her hair, Shanks traced his fingers along the curve of her hip, the circle sketched over her hipbone leaving a wet imprint, the reminder entirely teasing and not at all helpful. And he felt her urgency now, seeming nudged to the point of unbearable as she pushed a breath past her teeth and _yanked_ at the zipper.

It gave, and then she’d pushed her skirt down to her ankles and he’d hooked his arm under her knee, one of her own wound around his neck and her fingers gripping his cock, and when he buried himself in her it was with far more restraint than he’d thought himself capable, hearing the soft cry she gasped into the hollow of his throat.

It was a little awkward at first, but her laughter softened it into familiarity, rich with pleasure and hitching with every thrust, driving him deeper. She never held back, and he'd kept that memory of her for a decade; the way she looked when she let herself go, trusting him to catch her, here as surely as anywhere, and, _"Shanks,"_ she breathed, his name both a plea and an invocation, and sounding as natural on her tongue as though she'd been speaking it for years.

And with it, it came back to him, all those little things, how she preferred the pace, and that she liked it when he kissed that spot on her neck, right beneath her ear. He heard how her breath stuttered when he offered her name in turn, and spoke it again, his grin wicked where it curved against her skin, flushed with warmth. Hip to hip, she was tight around him, and his thoughts were fleeting and incoherent, consumed by the whole of her, her heat and her small sounds. And with her hands fisted in his hair, her control slipping and his grin widening with every little noise she yielded for him, they found their way back, each thrust easier than the last, until there was nothing left of that initial awkwardness, only a need to have her closer that had no patience for taking it slow.

When he came, it was a surrender; a release that took something from him, leaving him feeling curiously lighter, but it took all his strength just to keep standing as he lost himself to the feel of her around him, her warmth and the slender arms cinched tight around his neck. He felt her pulse, an echo of the heart racing against her breastbone, and heard the faint whine that clung to her breaths where she'd buried her nose in his throat.

For a heartbeat, he was gone, a deep-sated daze, curled like her warmth around him, but then with a breath he'd regained himself, hoisting her up and supporting her weight with his arm, her legs wrapping around his waist in response. And despite having only one he was stronger than he’d been; the sea had shaped him as she’d seen fit, demanding he adjust, and even if this wasn’t about life and death, he felt a self-satisfied sort of pleasure at the gentle reverence Makino showed, touching him, small-shy hands tracing the shape of his shoulders, a breath pulling free of her chest, tinged with a soft sound of contentment.

“Impressed?” Shanks laughed the word along the arch of her neck where her hair fell, so different from what it had been when it had curled beneath her ears. Now it hung, a thick curtain down her back, and he buried his nose in it, wanting all of her, and so much that he felt starved from it.

But then, ten years had been a damn long time, and something had shaken loose in him, touching her. He'd taken his time earlier, enjoying her company, not wanting to rush, but now he couldn't think past the feel of her around him, or understand how he'd managed without it for so long.

He heard her laughter, a humming trill, thick with gratification and just a twinge of unmet need. She still had a little way to go, but he’d make it up to her; would do it so thoroughly it made him dizzy just imagining it, eating her out until she was as lost as he was, her fingers gripping his hair and her head thrown back.

“Look at you,” Makino said, brushing her fingertips over his brow, pushing his hair back to look at him. Her eyes were dark and laughing. “So pleased with yourself.”

Shanks just grinned. “I did put in the work.”

“Not just for _this_ , I hope?”

But the way her eyes tilted made him wonder if she imagined him fully capable of doing just that. The thought had his grin widening.

“Well, that, and other things. I have to keep in shape, with all these kids looking to usurp me at every new tide.”

She smiled, cupping her palm to his cheek and brushing her thumb along the scars. The unabashed adoration in her expression made it suddenly hard to breathe. “I imagine it hasn’t been easy.”

Shanks didn’t answer. Stepping back until he felt the mattress nudge against his legs, he sat down, feeling the way she followed, still wrapped around him and sinking against him until he was flat on his back.

He watched her where she sat, the tiny, perfect shape of her; watched the rise of her small breasts and her hair where it fell around her shoulders, brushing her skin. Her eyes were impossibly dark in the gentle shadows.

Looking down at him from her perch across his hips, the flat of her palm pressed over his heart now, he felt the tips of her fingers prodding a scar that hadn’t been there, ten years ago. And he saw the questions in her eyes, the _whats_ and the _hows._ And those even more tentative—the _whys_ that he didn't know if he even had an answer to.

“Will you tell me?” Makino asked, and Shanks didn’t know if she meant the war, or his own truths; knew they all overlapped somehow, along with numerous others, so many that he’d long since lost count.

Reaching up to cup her cheek, the smile he found was at once older and the same he remembered, that too-bright curiosity tempered a bit, but when she looked at him, bared beneath her and with nowhere to hide his secrets and no reason to, he found that he wasn’t worried about how she’d react.

And so, “Yeah,” he said, at once wearied and eager, old and young, but it didn’t really matter which he felt the most, because here was a safe harbour, and gentle waters, and he felt he could be all those things and more, and still find her welcoming him back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Re)writing this has been a desperately therapeutic exercise for a brain that's been bogged down with grading exam papers for the past few weeks. I think that, above all else, my favourite thing to write will always be this kind of tender intimacy. And just...these two being besotted with each other. I'm a simple girl.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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